You ignore him and stare at Seungcheol instead. 

“There must be someone else,” you try, naively optimistic. “Gyu? Joshua?” But he grimaces and the student government office, already more of a closet than a room, closes in on you just a fraction more. 

“Everyone’s too busy to run next year."

Across from you, Chan’s brows furrow just a little as he feels a surge of annoyance overcome him. You don’t even know him—you just met him—and here you are, writing him off.

⊹

“I hate her,” Chan declares that night, half-heartedly watching Minho and Changbin play billiards in the basement of their frat house. “She just officially met me today, and she’s already campaigning to get people to run against me.”

“Sounds like she’s just a bitch,” Minho says, his brow furrowing when he misses a shot.

Chan ignores him, continuing his diatribe: “When I win, I’ll keep her on the e-board. Make her fucking miserable.”

Changbin snorts, effortlessly sinking another ball in and then leveling his gaze at Chan. “You know how I can tell you don’t hate her?”

“I do hate—”

“If you really hated her, you’d replace her when you win. But you want her on your e-board.”

“To rub it in, and to—”

“Y/N Y/L/N, right? I’ve had classes with her. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“It’s not about her being pretty,” Chan grumbles. “Plenty of pretty girls around.”

Changbin hums.

⊹

“I might make a good president, Y/N,” Chan says slowly the next day, watching you continue to write in your planner, not even deigning to make eye contact with him as he addresses you. “I think you’re treating me really unfairly. It’s not my fault your crush is leaving student government.”

A wildcard shot, really, but when your eyes shoot up to meet his instantly, he knows his aim was right on.

“I don’t have a crush on Seungcheol.”

“No?” Chan leans back, savoring your undivided attention on him. “You don’t hang out here all the time hoping to cross paths with him? You didn’t hide the footstool so that you can ask him to help you pin things up on the part of the bulletin board you can’t reach?”

How could he possibly know that, you think. Your face flushes and your chest tightens.

“Come on, Y/N,” he stares you down, “You act like your ears don’t turn cherry red whenever he smiles at you or brushes up against you.”

“They don’t,” you protest weakly, your eyes closing as you hear how pathetic the denial is. Were you actually this obvious?

⊹

“Private party, sorry.” The door swings shut before you can even process what the random girl said. Your fist nears the door, about to knock again, but then you back up and check the address and mailbox label. It’s the right place. This is definitely Chan’s frat house.

I’m here, you text him, feeling silly as you loiter on the steps outside the building.

Do you need an escort or something? Just come in.

Just go in? You knock again, plastering on your best fake smile when someone else comes to the door. Not the girl, but a guy this time. His eyes narrow as he looks you up and down.

“Private par—”

“Private party, I know,” you answer, trying to imbue some confidence into your voice so you sound like you belong here. “Chan asked me to—”

He walks away from you then, into the house, but leaves the door open. You take a deep breath and follow him in, shutting the door gently behind you and peering around the living room. It’s cleaner than you thought it would be, even though there’s already bottles of beer and joints scattered on the coffee table. You try not to make eye contact with anyone. Most of them are making out or grinding against each other.

“Chan’s downstairs,” the guy says, nodding his head towards the door near the staircase.

“Thank you,” you call after him, feeling a little better when he hums in acknowledgment.

You’re not prepared to enter a frat house basement. You freeze when you step into the haze, coughing immediately at the strong smell of weed. Chan’s on the couch surrounded by people who either seem drunk or high out of their mind. One of the girls is straddling his lap and others surround him, laughing when he pours some beer down their throats or holds up his joint for them.

It’s not too late to turn back, you think. You can reschedule this, and—

“Y/N,” Chan says, his voice startlingly clear, cleanly snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Um, hi,” you say, stepping closer to him. You see two other guys sitting on opposite armchairs, also with girls hanging off them, and you stare at one of them for a second too long before your eyes flick back dutifully to Chan’s. “Do we want to go somewhere else for this?”

“Why would we?” He lifts the girl off his lap and says something to her. Suddenly, everyone’s getting off the couch and flocking to the guys in the armchairs instead.

“You can sit,” Chan says, an amused grin on his face as he pats the seat next to him.

You glance at the sofa and then him and shake your head. “I’m actually fine standing,” you say, breaking eye contact to riffle through your bag and pull out your resume. “Here, and I have a cover letter too, and—“

“Y/N, you understand that if you’re going to keep your role as Comms Director, you'd report directly to me, right?”

“Yes,” you mumble, feeling your face flush as you slow your searching for the cover letter.

“And for us to have a functioning working relationship, you need to listen to me, yeah?”

“Yeah, I know, I—“

“Then sit the fuck down and look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Your breath stutters and you sit down, staring at him, wide-eyed, as he scans your resume before tossing it aside. 

“Let’s start with flyers,” he announces suddenly. “Design me some good ones. Due Monday morning, please.” 

You blink, mentally rearranging your weekend schedule already. You could bring your laptop to brunch with your roommate...maybe skip the weekly trivia night with your friends? You nod, expecting some good will from your acceptance of the short turnaround, but Chan leaves you to start a game of beer pong in the backyard. 

You stand around awkwardly for another ten minutes, not sure if that’s all he wanted from you. When you feel silly for just waiting around, you leave, smelling faintly like weed and beer.

⊹

You send the flyer to him the next day, happy to be done with it. You don’t think about it until hours later, when he emails you:

“Oh my god,” you huff, staring at the email you just got.

You bite your lip, refreshing your inbox and waiting for the icon to show up. You feel silly when it doesn’t come after two minutes. It’s a Friday night, and along with being the most likely student government president-elect, Chan’s the president of his frat too. He’s not like you, he’s probably drinking and—ding. You open the email immediately.

Better. Send me the original file. I’ll just make the rest of the edits myself.

You should be happy that your duty is done, but you’re not.

What edits? I can make them.

Refresh.

Original file, Y/N.

You frown.

No, Chan.

⊹

You almost forget about the email exchange from the weekend, but when you walk into the student government lounge Monday morning, new flyers with Chan’s face on them are plastered around the room. It looks good, but it’s not your work.

“You redid it?” You ask, your contempt giving in to your insecurity when you take in the edited photo and sharper copy. It’s…better than what you came up with.

“Yeah, I had one of the girls in my marketing class do it. She does good work, doesn’t she? Luckily for you, she’s not interested in stu gov though, so you’ll keep your job.” The words have the intended effect and you grow quiet.

“I could’ve made those edits,” you say dumbly.

“You know how they say the best photos are when the photographers have a real appreciation for the subject? Well—”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t interrupt me,” he snaps, his cocky grin dissipating, morphing into something sterner. You automatically nod, your eyes wide.

“As I was saying. Clearly you hate me, so how could you possibly make my campaign materials look good? That’s okay though, you can just help with handing out the flyers. Start with those five hundred.”

“Five hundred?”

“Seungcheol said you were the best right hand for any student body president. Is he a liar?”

“No, I just meant…I’m a good right hand, not your personal assistant.”

Chan ignores you. “Go, Y/N.”

“Okay. But…don’t tell Cheolie about the whole flyer thing?” You ask, miserably moving towards the doorway, papers in hand. 

Chan’s eyes narrow. Cheolie? His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before he looks away. “I’ll tell Seungcheol whatever the fuck I want. Go.”

⊹

You’re a good Comms Director, Chan realizes, as he hovers over you in the office the next week, caging you in with one hand on the desk near your hip while he scans the campaign materials on your laptop. Sharp, direct copy. Nice designs. Smart placements. 

He’s still reading but out of the corner of his eye, he sees your face, clearly tired, as you squirm in the chair. He glances up towards the clock—he’s kept you here for six hours already. You fidget again. 

“What do you want, Y/N?” He asks in a low voice, right by your ear, still keeping you trapped in your chair, stuck between it and the desk. 

You suppress a yawn. “I want to go home,” you answer easily. “I have a psych paper to finish.”

Chan shakes his head. “Is that really it? What do you actually want, Y/N? Use your words.”

Heat crawls up the back of your neck at his tone but you’re too tired to do anything but sit back in your chair and close your eyes. “I want you to tell me I did a good job so I can go home.” You finally admit, cheeks turning a little pink. 

You don’t see the smile on Chan’s face when he withdraws, moving back to his own seat. “You did a good job. You can go home.”

You hate how your stomach flips at the acknowledgement, even as you bite back just a little. "High praise," you mutter.

"Go home before I change my mind, Y/N."

⊹

You and Chan are still in the student government office at 11 pm the next Tuesday, deep in campaign planning.

He rattles off a list of ideas, some good, some bad, everywhere from a students vs. professors basketball game fundraiser to a raffle for a PlayStation. You type it all up on your laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as your eyes scan over the budget spreadsheet. 

When he starts talking about casino night, you pipe up as the voice of reason: “I think we need to focus on allocating expenses for printing more flyers first. And maybe for things like stickers and buttons?” 

Chan grins, scooting his seat closer to you. “Hey, I heard that you were a blackjack fiend during Seungcheol’s casino night fundraiser. Had to pull you away from the table. That true?” 

Your cheeks burn and you move your laptop slightly so it sits between you and Chan, partially obscuring your face. “That’s not how I remember it,” you mumble, but Chan is already up and grabbing your wrist. “What are you doing?” You squeak, the protest ignored as he drags you out of the student government office and upstairs into the rest of the student union, where there’s a claw machine sitting in the corner. 

“Let’s take a break,” he says. “Are you any good at these?”

“Not really,” you say, eyeing a pink corduroy Miffy as you step up to the machine. Chan taps his phone against the payment processor and you try and fail to get the Miffy. He leans against the back wall, arms crossed, watching you, as you fish out your own phone to pay for another chance. Fail again. 

Tap. Fail. Tap. Fail. 

The corner of Chan’s lips twitch. So the rumors were true. 

“You’re an addict,” he concludes, laughing. Your brows furrow but you’re so focused on your fifth or sixth attempt that you don’t even glare at him, eyes glued to the claw machine. 

“Not an addict,” you retort quickly. “It’s just...really cute and I want it.” 

Really cute and I want it, Chan thinks, still grinning as he steps in behind you, wrapping his hand over yours where it's clenched tight around the joystick, steering your grip. Words of protest die in your throat as you feel his hard chest pressed against your back and your mind goes static. 

His free hand taps his phone against the payment processor again and with his guidance, the claw catches the Miffy and drops it into the prize chute.

“Here, sweetheart,” he says, letting go of you to bend down and retrieve the stuffed animal. You swallow and watch him straighten up. “No need to waste all your life savings gambling. This is for you.” 

You accept the Miffy, fingers brushing against his for half a second. “Thanks,” you say. "Can I try to win something for you?"

Chan laughs and steers you away from the machine. "Not a chance, addict."

⊹

Rei kind of reminds you of Chan, charismatic and reassuring, all confident smiles and perfect hair as she walks you through the winding hallways of the student union basement until you’re in front of B331, the comically extravagant office of Mark Chen, chief justice of the student government’s judicial branch.

In the few seconds between when she knocks and when Mark’s door swings opens, you take a step back, tempted to just turn around and leave.

“I don’t know about—”

Your already quiet voice cuts off completely when Mark smiles down at you. “Y/N,” he greets warmly, ushering you in. Like Chan, Rei is new to student government, so he’s distinctly cooler when he addresses her: “Rei, welcome.”

She takes her seat immediately, ignoring the anxiety emanating from you. “Justice Chen,” she says smoothly, appealing to Mark’s authority after a scan of his desk with his plaques and fake gavel. “It has come to my attention that Chan has been engaging in unfair electoral procedure and Y/N can testify.”

Mark doesn’t look surprised as he lifts his head to regard you, still standing awkwardly near the door. Word must not have reached him about you working on Chan’s campaign—he only knows you as the good girl who runs errands for Student Body President Seungcheol, and of course he would expect you to set aside everything for the integrity of the office.

“Jay’s not in,” he says, flipping through his desk calendar. “He’s the Chair of the Student Election Commission, but I can take notes and—”

“That’d be great,” Rei beams. 

⊹

You’re back in the student government office that night, designing social media posts. When you turn around to reach for your water bottle, Chan is completely crowding your personal space, his chest nearly grazing yours. You back up reflexively and he advances in return until you’re pressed against the bulletin board, thumbtacks and flyers against your back, completely boxed in.

“Do you want to be my Comms Director, Y/N?”

Your brows furrow. What kind of question is that? You’ve worked so hard on his campaign, for god's sake. “Of course I do, I just spent all day tabling in the—”

“The way I see it,” he interrupts you, stepping so close that you’re really trapped now. “You’re a little traitor helping the enemy. Do you disagree?” 

“Is...is this about me and Rei at the SEC earlier?” You ask, blinking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. “She dragged me there and I couldn’t just lie! And the Elections Commissioner wasn’t even there so—”

Chan clicks his tongue, cutting you off, his hand flattening on the wall beside your head. “A loyal little Comms Director would have kept her mouth shut, don’t you think?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you murmur, the air in the small office going thick as Chan breathes down on you. “Mark gave us a warning and—”

“I don’t care about that.” Chan says, his tone firm. “Are you loyal to me, Y/N, yes or no?”

You swallow hard, the sound embarrassingly loud. You’re loyal to student government, to your post...

“Yes.”

Chan hums. “Good. Luckily, I know Jay, so this won’t be a real problem for us, but this is not a conversation I want to have with you ever again. Understand?” 

You nod a little too fast. “Yes,” you reassure him, voice shaky. Chan studies your expression for a beat and when he’s satisfied with what he finds, he finally steps back, giving you room to breathe again as he retreats to the couch. 

“Next time I won’t talk to anyone without your permission, Your Highness,” you say, finding your courage again now that he’s not pinning you up against the wall. "Happy?"

Chan’s eyes flash at the title and a smirk tugs on his lips. "Getting there."

⊹

You walk out of the student government office in tears. You have a demerit on your record now. An actual line in your file, in ink, spelling out your lack of professionalism and snide remarks. Seungcheol’s voice was serious and disappointed as he spoke to you, telling you plainly that if you didn’t change your tune, you’d be removed from your position in student government.

He had read aloud that initial email exchange and some of your oh-so clever comebacks to Chan, but they didn’t seem so smart anymore. Then, he had pulled out the student government handbook and had you read him the code of conduct and the responsibilities of the Comms Director during election season, patient, almost bored, as you clenched and unclenched your fists, trying so hard not to cry in front of him but still eventually failing.

The meeting ended with his soft voice saying your name, a sweet sound tinged with reassurance, as if talking down a crying six year old. You responded with a stiff, professional reply, followed by a request, reluctantly granted, to get going if that was all.

The walk to your apartment from campus usually takes you twenty minutes, but you get there in a little under fifteen today, desperate to return to your safe haven. Even your building isn’t off-limits to Chan, however.

“Hey Y/N,” Chan greets, smirking at you as you approach the door. “Anything eventful happen during your meeting with Cheolie?”

You flinch and try your best to ignore him, instead punching the elevator button aggressively and squeezing your eyes shut tight when Chan follows you in.

The joke on his tongue disappears when he sees the tears shining in your eyes. Are you actually this sensitive? Who gives a fuck about a complaint filed through student government? Most of the student body didn’t even know it existed. Plus, this was the perfect revenge for the thing with Rei. You had to respect that...right?

He says your name again, a bit of concern flooding him as he watches you storm out of the elevator and struggle with your keys three times before he finally gently pushes you aside and takes them from you. You mumble a quiet thanks when he opens your door, not even trying to stop him as he follows you into his apartment.

Screw being a good host, you think, as you quickly drop your bag in the corner and strip off your coat. He invited himself in.

Chan, maybe for the first time in his life, feels out of place as he stands in your studio apartment, walls plastered in posters and certificates. It’s cute and he’s curious enough to really take it all in, for sure, but his attention can’t seem to stray from your face. You look miserable. He did that.

“Hey,” he tries again, softening his voice when you slide into bed, burying your head in your pillows. “Y/N, come on. What happened?”

He kind of hopes that maybe it’s not his fault. Maybe you’re crying because you finally confessed your feelings to Seungcheol, and he rejected you. It’d be a lot easier to comfort you if Chan wasn’t the reason for your tears, but he knows he probably is.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, the words dragged out, interspersed between hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry for being…being difficult. I should’ve—”

“Stop, Y/N,” Chan says, sitting down on your bed and stroking your hair slowly, waiting to see if you’ll come to your senses and kick him out.

You don’t. You keep crying for another half hour and Chan just lets you, playing with your hair and patting your back a little bit when you choke on a sob. When you stop, he thinks you might be ready to talk, but he frowns when he realizes you’re just asleep. He made you cry yourself to sleep.

⊹

When you wake up, Chan’s in your kitchen, cooking something that smells surprisingly good. Your stomach growls and when he turns around to look at you, you purse your lips.

“I’m not hungry,” you try. 

“Too bad,” he says. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”

You put up a bit of resistance, but maybe the emotions from today were too much, because you give into Chan so easily. You don’t even blink when he insists on feeding you, just sitting there numbly and letting him do whatever he wants. That’s what you should’ve done all along. Appease him, which would make Seungcheol proud of you. Not this futile fight you’ve been putting up.

“He’s not upset with you because you broke conduct, you know,” Chan says quietly, not looking at you as he hands over a bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks. “He’s pissed you did it because of me.”

You shake your head, first in confusion, then in disbelief when Chan starts explaining it to you. 

“That’s not—”

“The one time you were a little interesting to him, it was because another man provoked you and you fought back, all bratty and flirty.”

You keep shaking your head, but his words, true or not, slowly sink in. Your adherence to the rules makes you boring to Seungcheol, Chan says bluntly, and he resents that he couldn’t turn his good girl right hand into a flirtatious rulebreaker.

⊹

Chan can’t help but smile when you show up at the student government office bright and early the next morning, mumbling a quiet hi to Seungcheol in your best HR voice on the way straight to him.

“Sleep well?” He asks casually, locking eyes with Seungcheol as you smile and nod at him.

“Yes, thank you, Channie,” you say, oblivious to the disapproving look in Seungcheol’s eyes. Chan basks in it—it takes him a few seconds to pry his eyes away from the discontent ones across the room and back to yours. “Good,” he coos. “Come help me with this?”

You obediently take the seat next to him and huddle up against him as you reach for the trackpad on his laptop, giggling at something he says, and Seungcheol clears his throat.

“Y/N, I need you at senate training today. Noon to 10 PM.”

Your face falls. A protest almost escapes you before you nod, acquiescing. Seungcheol shoots Chan a satisfied look. He doesn’t look up though, too busy taking in your wide, apologetic eyes. There’s a pleading quality to them that he can't help but love. “I’m sorry I can’t be of much help today,” you say sweetly.

Chan laughs, telling you how nonsensical that is, and then announces his decision to sit in on the senate training. As the president-elect, he should see how the legislative branch works, right? He doesn’t make eye contact when he sees you sit up in excitement out of the corner of his eye, but he can’t hide the smile on his lips. Seungcheol’s mouth flattens into a tight line, the same way it always does when one of his staffers behaves in any manner less than perfectly professional, but he says nothing.

⊹

The first time you meet Chan’s friends, you’re predictably nervous. The frat house looks less menacing in the day time, sure, but it’s still a frat house. 

You tried to get out of it, tried to protest that the student government office was a better setting for the work you two were doing, but apparently his frat house also has a commercial printer, so that was that. You’re sitting at the kitchen island now, doing homework, while the boys are sprawled around the first floor, doing different things. 

Han—you recognize him from the nightmare calc class you took last semester—sits with you, clearly nosy because he pokes you every time you mess up a differential equation. 

“Go easy on her, Hannie,” Chan admonishes, his focus split between whatever video game he’s playing and the impromptu tutoring session happening at the dining table. “She still hasn’t wrapped her head around how cool people can be smart.”

Before you can protest, Hyunjin, the guy who opened the door for you at the party, snorts from behind you. “Smarter than her.”

“Captain of the soccer team,” he continues, smirking as he points to himself. “Chair of the alumni donations committee, president of art club…and I party, Y/N. Not that you would know, since you live in the library.”

Your cheeks burn. Your eyes flick to Chan.

He assesses you, drinking in the pleading quality to your expression that he loves so much. In just under two seconds, he’s made up his mind: this kind of teasing is something you can handle. He turns back to the game, making a jab about whatever maneuver Felix just attempted.

“Come on,” Han says, tapping his pen in front of you in an attempt to refocus your attention. “Don’t listen to him, just—”

"Oh man, that sucks," Felix chuckles suddenly. You follow everyone's gaze to the TV and watch Chan's character die spectacularly.

"So he's not good at everything," you tease, whispering conspiratorially to Hyunjin, who laughs loudly at the jab. "Oh, there's a lot he's not good at it. Pick up any of those games there. He's probably trash at it."

You giggle and then your eyes meet Chan's. "Don't pile onto the bullying, Y/N," he says lightly, like he's still in on the joke.

"Isn't this game supposed to be easy?" You grin, relaxing comfortably into the atmosphere. The boys laugh but Chan's gaze sharpens and you go still, your heart pounding faster. Sorry, you mouth, but all he does is nod towards your homework.

You duck your head and shift your focus back to the math, heat rushing to your face.

⊹

You sigh when Felix and Seungmin appear, flanking you on either side as you walk out of your philosophy lecture.

“I’m not a flight risk,” you say, pouting at Felix. It gets him to falter, but Seungmin steps up quickly, getting in between you two.

“Don’t try to manipulate him.”

“I’m not—“

He cuts you off by snapping his fingers in your face and then handing you a paper bag. “Yogurt and a tuna sandwich,” he explains. “Your boyfriend's orders to make sure you eat.”

You feel a wave of nausea at the mention of food—you could never maintain an appetite when midterms were coming up—but you take it and smile. “Don't have a boyfriend. But thank you, I’ll eat this later.”

“You’ll eat it now.” Seungmin replies swiftly.

“What?”

“Chan didn’t force Minho to make you that this morning just for you to throw it out. Eat it now.”

“I have class.”

“No you don’t.”

You end up eating the sandwich on the walk to the frat house.

⊹

When you send Chan an innocuous forgot my laptop charger :/ text the next Saturday afternoon, you don’t expect him to drop everything to deliver one. But he does, rushing to the library and flagging down the first freshman he sees to ask where the study rooms are. When he finally spots you, he just…stops to admire you. The workspace in front of you is all color coded notes and pretty charts and your hair—usually down—is up in a ponytail, exposing the curve of your neck and more of your face.

“What are you writing?” Chan asks as he pushes into the study room, charger in hand. 

Your face lights up when you see him and for a second, it steals Chan’s breath. 

“You didn’t have to rush here,” you say quickly, looking sheepish enough that he just stares, one eyebrow raised, as he rounds the table to plug the charger into the wall. 

“Thirty percent?” He groans. “I cut my nap short because your laptop is only at thirty percent? That’s like, an entire hour more of work.” 

You grin, clearing your bag and jacket out of the seat next to you to make room for him. “I didn’t ask you to bring me a charger. I was just…giving you an update on my life.” 

“Oh yeah?” Chan rolls his eyes, dropping into the seat next to yours and scooting in until his arm brushes against yours.

“How long have you been here?” 

“Since eight,” you answer honestly, glancing towards your empty iced latte from this morning. “I still have lots to do though, so don’t distract me.” 

Chan puts his hands up in surrender and then starts flipping through your notes, dozens of pages of your neat, meticulous handwriting. He snorts when he scans one of them—you even wrote down your professor’s shitty jokes. “These aren’t notes, sweetheart, they’re transcripts.”

You shrug. “I’m a thorough notetaker, I guess. If you don’t have any work of your own then…maybe you could read my paper and give feedback on it?” 

“Yeah, whatever, hit me. But when I’m done we’re going for a quick lap downstairs to get you lunch.” 

“I’m not hun—“

“I don’t care,” Chan interrupts, holding his hand out for your paper. He picks up one of your pens, a fun purple-colored one. “I give you feedback and then we’re grabbing lunch. Deal?” 

“Deal.” You smile when Chan shakes his head and makes you pinky promise him, complete with the thumb stamping gesture. 

You wrap up what you’re working on quickly and let yourself just look at Chan as he reads your essay. His brows are furrowed cutely in concentration and he holds the pen cap between his teeth, drawing your attention, for a fleeting moment, to his mouth.

Every few seconds, he underlines something or writes a comment in the margins. You peer over his shoulder, curious, but he must feel your gaze, because he reaches one arm out to push you back fully into your seat. 

“No,” he says simply, too engrossed in your paper to savor the way your entire body stills at his command. “You can make my edits after lunch,” he explains, eyes still on the paper. 

“If they’re even good enough to take under consideration,” you huff.

Chan laughs, unbothered. “That attitude is how I know you definitely need fresh air and food after this.” 

He reads a little more before sighing. “Geez, this sentence…” You try to snatch your paper back but he keeps it out of your reach easily, smirking. 

After a few more tries, you give up, lightly hitting his shoulder. “You’re mean,” you pout, a little breathless from the exertion. 

“The kind of mean you like,” he teases, nodding back towards your chair. He flips to the last page to review your footnotes and you take the opportunity to mutter another grievance while he's still laughing. You only push your luck like this when he's clearly entertained by it; any snark you have dies the instant his smile falls.

⊹

You’re not a confrontational person. You never have been. Your dynamic with Chan, as much as you’d resist the label, is rooted in flirtation. It’s not real confrontation. 

You don’t handle it well. When Seungcheol confronted you about your conduct, you iced him out. 

So this is really something, Chan thinks, as he watches you from across the dining hall, voice raised, hands flying in exasperation. 

“I’m not dating him!” You say for what feels like the hundredth time. 

Chan doesn’t hear all of it, but as he approaches you and Melody, he hears your final words before he intervenes: “And even if Chan was dating someone, he’d pick me over you.” 

“Would I?” He asks, stopping right behind you, hands on your shoulders. 

The words make you pale while Melody straightens up, looking triumphant. “Obviously not,” she sneers, flipping her hair dramatically. “Tell her, Channie.”

You need to turn around, to read his expression, but you can't. Panic slices through you. Even his voice is too calm, too unreadable...you can't tell if he's amused or displeased.

Chan’s grip tightens on your shoulders and you squeeze your eyes shut. How did you get here? He’s going to mortify you in front of the entire dining hall, in front of all Melody’s stupid sorority sisters and the student athletes that just got out from practice. He’s going to laugh in your face in front of everyone, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

“I’d pick you over her, Y/N?” He repeats, an indulgent grin looming over you that you can’t see. 

You shake your head, willing yourself to please not cry. “I just…I thought…”

“You thought what?” When you stay silent, he spins you around, forcing you to look up at him. He raises an eyebrow and you shiver, shaking your head. 

“Come on, Y/N. Continue. Just pretend I’m not here.”

Melody scoffs, unsatisfied with Chan’s refusal to defend her even if she thinks he’s prolonging this to humiliate you. The sound grabs Chan’s attention, and he lets go of you to step up to Melody. 

“And you,” he says, keeping the smile off his face when Melody's haughty expression falls. She knows what that look from him means, and it’s nothing good. “You think I’d date you, Melody? Be serious.”

You keep your eyes on the floor as Chan continues past her stammering.

He says something to her, too quiet for you to hear, and then, just as quickly as it started, everyone’s dispersing. You didn’t even notice Changbin and Seungmin standing around, waiting to shepherd people away. They do it efficiently, and you barely catch a last look at Melody before she storms off. When you bend down to get your backpack, it’s not there—Chan’s got it slung over his shoulder already.

“I have, um, class,” you say lamely. 

“No, you don’t,” he says, not looking at you as he walks away too. “Come on, let’s eat.”

He steers you into a booth in the back of the dining hall. “I didn’t make you answer in front of everyone, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving you a free pass.”

You pause mid-bite, your eyes betraying your shock. Chan laughs, placing some more food in your bowl, before schooling his expression to look serious again. “You have five minutes, tops, until the rest of the guys get their food and join us. I don’t mind if you want to say it in front of them—”

“No!” You say, nearly choking. “I think…I thought, that maybe…”

“Maybe what? Use your words.”

“Maybe you liked me back,” you squeal quickly, almost incoherently, right as Han sits down next to you. Please don’t respond, you think. Not in front of Han. Please.

“Hey—” Han’s greeting is cut off by Chan, his eyes boring into yours: “You think maybe I liked you back?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel your cheeks heat and you jump to your feet. “I need to go. I…bye, Hannie.” 

Han waves, his mouth full, as he looks between Chan and your quickly retreating figure. “What’d I miss?”

“More like ruined,” Chan groans, stuffing one last bite into his mouth before standing up, your backpack in his hand. “Tell you later.”

⊹

Chan moves out of sight of the doorway when he sees you and Seungcheol in the stu gov office. He clutches your backpack strap tighter. 

“Can I tell you something, Cheolie?”

Chan’s jaw tightens and he strains to listen—Seungcheol must nod, because all of the sudden, you’re confessing. You’re fucking confessing, telling him you started liking him last year, and that—

Chan leaves immediately, his ears ringing from anger. You finally told him. You mustered up the courage and told a different guy that you liked him. He almost goes back to dump your backpack off, but instead just leaves it in the stairwell. He might break something if he has to go back and hear you preen about fucking Seungcheol. 

You swallow hard, waiting for Seungcheol to respond. At first, his expression remains unreadable, and then it gives way to a smile. 

“I knew you had a little crush on me, Y/N,” he confirms. “It was cute. Harmless, so I didn’t touch it. But I’m glad you like Chan,” he grins. “I don’t love the guy, but you two seem good together.”

“I was wondering if you had an extra of those Stu Gov keychains we made last year?” You blush. “I want to make him a little care package for when he wins. And, um, pick your brain about how to...how to get him to like me back?”

⊹

You frown at your phone, waiting for Chan to respond. Your congratulations text wasn’t just obligatory—after everything you’ve been through together, you’re genuinely happy for and proud of him. He doesn’t respond though, leaving you on read, but you don’t think too much of it. 

That night, you hesitate at the door of the student government office. It’s packed. Chan’s election party. You take a deep breath, willing your social anxiety away, and push open the door, slipping in just in time to hear the tail end of Chan’s brief but eloquent victory speech. Han sees you and saves you from lingering awkwardly by yourself, pulling you to sit in between him and Minho. 

When the speech concludes, you stay on the couch, watching Chan as he chats with the rest of the student government officers, including the new senate chair and Rei, his runner-up-turned-elections-commissioner. It’s almost presidential, you think, smiling when he finally makes his way to you. 

“Congratulations, Channie!” You beam, jumping up to hug him. He doesn’t really hug you back, just letting you hang off him a little bit. When you let him go to question it, his eyes are on his friends.

“Crazy to see you guys in the student government office,” he chuckles, still ignoring your presence. You bristle a little at his tone. It sounds a little mocking, but maybe you’re just reading too much into it. 

Minho snickers, his eyes finding yours briefly before shifting his attention back onto his friends. “Crazy you’re the head of the student government now.”

“Resume padding, you know?” 

You tense up when you hear Chan’s bored voice, and this time he does make eye contact with you, smiling before beckoning all of his friends out so they can do whatever their original Friday night plans entailed. “Oh and Y/N?” He adds when he’s already halfway to the door. “Clean and then lock up when everyone’s done celebrating.” And then he’s gone. 

⊹

“Man, what are you doing?” Felix half-groans as he watches Chan thumb through student government applications in the middle of their frat party. 

Chan ignores him, sorting resumes into piles. No one seems good enough to replace you, but he’s going to find someone to take up your role anyways. 

“You want me to offer myself up as a rebound for her?”

Felix sighs, pointing out that Chan knows that’s not what he meant, but it doesn’t matter. Chan smirks as he sees the last application in the pile. Melody. Perfect. 

⊹

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.

You keep repeating the words to yourself as you clean up the aftermath of the party. The problem with keeping your post during regime changes is that no one’s your friend, not really. Seungcheol left in the first half hour. You thought Hoshi or Mingyu might make an appearance, but that didn’t happen. So you’re left alone, feeling overwhelmed as you sort empty soda cans and pizza boxes. 

Later that night, once you've made it back to your apartment, you get an email from Chan. You don't know what you're expecting but you open it quickly.

Y/N— Writing to let you know I’ve decided someone else is better suited to be my Comms Director. You’re of course welcome to run or apply for any other open positions. Chan

You blink twice and then three times, staring at the email in disbelief. Was he only nice to you so you’d help him with his campaign? The cursor next to his name blinks, waiting for you to process this.

That’s the only option, with him discarding you the second he won. 

Your throat goes impossibly dry and you read the email over again. And again. 

And then:

Sorry for the double email, forgot to mention: it’d be helpful if you want to pass along your notes and maybe a transition doc to the next Comms Director, Melody Hong. Chan

You don’t think twice before texting him.

⊹

Is it cruel for Chan to get to the student government office bright and early the next morning so he can supervise you clearing out your stuff? Maybe. 

You don’t say hi when you walk in, instead keeping your head down and going straight to your desk. You’re thankful it’s a small space and so there’s not too much to pack up, but you know it’ll still take at least ten minutes, and that’s ten minutes more than you’d like to spend in Chan’s presence. 

“No good morning?” He taunts. “When can we expect that transition document?”

You take a shaky breath, trying not to get angry. You’ve never been able to argue without crying, and you’re definitely never giving Chan the satisfaction of seeing you cry ever again. 

“I’ll send it to you end of week,” you say, pleasantly surprised at how steady your voice sounds. Chan nods, falling silent as he watches you pack. Most of the color in the office came from your little tchotchkes and decor, and when you’re done, it’s primarily gray that’s left over. He almost stops you when you grab his mug. Your mug, really, but you let him use it countless times for midnight hot chocolates and early morning coffees. His chest hurts when he looks up from the mug to see you, on the verge of tears, staring back at him. 

He clears his throat. “So, um…”

Not as eloquent as he usually is. 

“Bye, Chan,” you say numbly, not waiting for him to respond as you walk out of the office. You dump the entire box into the trash can right outside the door, flinching when you hear ceramic breaking. 

Chan, Chan thinks resentfully. It’s his name, but he’s gotten so used to hearing your soft, sweet Channies or adorably respectful Channie oppas that Chan just sounds wrong coming from you. 

He waits for five minutes, plenty of time for you to leave, before shuffling out into the hallway and checking the trash to confirm what he thought he heard. He’s a little grateful that the janitor empties out the trash every morning, so other than the contents of your desk, the trash is devoid of anything. Overwhelmingly, though, he’s sad, swallowing hard as he fishes out your mug. His mug. 

It’s only broken into two pieces, so Hyunjin should be able to patch it up for him easily. 

When he sees a photo of you and Seungcheol amongst your things, he feels a little better. At least you won’t be with him, no matter how you feel about it. He should thank Cheol at some point. 

⊹

“Y/N wasn’t in class today,” Changbin says as he kicks his shoes off in the mud room before entering the frat house. “The professor asked about it. Said she didn’t tell him in advance and no one’s heard from her in a couple of days.”

Chan’s chest pain gets worse. 

He’s now more than ever concerned that he did the wrong thing. He could’ve been nice to you while still refusing to be your rebound for Seungcheol. Hell, you probably weren’t even the rebound type. It just pissed him off so much how you looked at Cheol with those reverent eyes, oozing devotion and worship from your every pore. 

“She’s probably fine, just sulking,” Chan pipes up, his eyes staying locked on his laptop so as not to have to look at any of his friends. 

“Why’d you kick her out again?” Seungmin asks, plopping down on the couch next to Chan. “Thought you were just starting to like her.”

⊹

“You went over my fucking head?”

You flinch when Chan storms into your apartment and can barely open your mouth to retaliate when he speaks again: “We’ll have a conversation later about you leaving your door unlocked for any psycho to just barge in here.” 

“What do you care?”

It’s instinctive and immature and resentful, but you say it anyways, moving around your studio like his presence doesn't bother you. Your feigned nonchalance clearly bothers him though—he stomps over to your desk and slams your laptop shut. His eyes, almost black with anger, find yours. 

“How many fucking times,” he starts, his hand reaching out for your throat, immediately causing your head to swim. “Do I have to tell you to lock that damn door?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond now either, slamming you against the wall. 

Your hands fly to your neck when he tightens his grip, but you don’t make contact. They just hover there as you stare at him. You hope to god he can’t see how your knees are weakening and how your lips part automatically. You hope when he sees your eyes close slowly, he thinks it’s out of misery and not bliss. 

There’s definitely something wrong with you, you think, as you revel in how good his fingers feel around your throat. 

“Sorry,” you eventually manage to croak out, and it’s the wrong thing to say judging by the look on Chan’s face. 

“You’re not fucking sorry.” He lets you go briefly, looking at you thoughtfully as you stay pressed up against the wall even without his hold. “Did you like that, Y/N?” He taunts, his thumb rubbing over your pulse point, gentle now. 

You shake your head, too flustered to form words, and he laughs. “You did, didn’t you? You liked me choking you? You’ll let me decide when you get to breathe but not who gets to be my Comms Director?” 

“I didn’t let you do any—”

“Tell me to get out now,” he demands, voice low, eyes on your lips. “Say it now, or so help me...” 

You bite your lip and the last of the reins on Chan’s control snaps. He brings you closer to him, manhandling you easily, fingers digging into your waist as he ghosts his lips over yours. It’s a chaste almost-kiss, and when you surge forward to try to chase it, he pins you back against the wall and kisses you for real, all anger and frustration and weeks of maybe-flirting, maybe-friendship reaching its tipping point. 

“Where do I start with you, Y/N?” He all but growls, pulling away just a little to watch you pant. “Helping Rei, leading me on, leaving your fucking door unlocked for anyone to come in here—”

Your mind swims, too breathless to latch onto any of his words. He jerks his head towards your bed and you stumble towards it, on autopilot.

⊹

“Why are you still here?” You question as soon as you come to, your eyes slowly fluttering open. Your head is on Chan’s chest and his fingers are combing through your hair. It’s so nice to be touched like this by him, and you savor it for another two minutes before you fully wake up and twist out of his grip to crawl across the bed, away from him. 

“Was worried about you,” he says quietly, dropping the hand that was petting you before. “Was pretty rough on you.”

You scoff, getting up and wrapping yourself in the nearest hoodie. It’s his, you think disappointedly, but it’s already on and you don’t want to have to sheepishly take it off to search for one of yours. 

“Great, thanks. You can go now.”

He can definitely hear the poorly veiled resentment in your voice. You’re waiting for him to call you out on your immaturity or to start an argument about the way you secured your student government position. You’re not prepared for what he actually says. 

“Are you over Seungcheol?”

You freeze, at a loss for words. Are you over Seungcheol? 

“Yeah.” You turn away from him so you don’t have to look him in the eyes. “I started liking someone else, but turns out he was a jerk who couldn’t even respond to my congratulations text, so I’m over him too.”

Your chest hurts when you say it and you dig your fingernails into your palms. Please don’t cry. Please, please, please... 

“Y/N…”

“Please get out.” Your voice is small and unsure. Chan doesn’t move. As you steel yourself to ask him to leave again, you feel his arms around your waist, wrapping around you and pulling you into him. You start crying, trying to hide it with sniffles that only make it more obvious. 

“I was so worried you still liked Seungcheol,” Chan whispers, kissing the back of your head. “I felt betrayed, Y/N. Like everything we worked towards together meant nothing, because at the end of the day, I was falling for you and you still only had eyes for Seungcheol.”

You shake your head in disagreement, but Chan shushes you, his voice soft and sweet.

“I know, baby, I was so wrong, wasn’t I?”

You nod at that and he lets you turn around to face him. You were going to pout up at him anyways, but his fingers continue to rest underneath your chin, keeping your gaze up. “Yes,” you whimper, wiping away some of your tears. “You were so mean.”

“I know, I know,” Chan murmurs, pulling you into his chest. You cry into his shirt, too emotional to feel self conscious about the way your tears soak through the fabric. “Not the kind of mean you like though, right?”

You look up at him and nod, and when he gazes back expectantly, you feel your cheeks flush. “Not the kind of mean we both like,” you correct. He presses a kiss to your forehead this time, before gently guiding you back to bury your head in his chest. 

“I’m sorry, baby.”

⊹

EPILOGUE:

“Higher, I think,” you say, standing back and supervising as Chan lifts the cork board higher up against the wall. A smile pulls at his lips as he executes, knowing you’ll need to call for him anytime you want to switch up the top of the bulletin. “You’re not slick, sweetheart.” 

You stick your tongue out at him and turn to the rest of the boxes cluttering up the newly emptied student government office, slowly unpacking everything. 

Chan finishes nailing it to the wall and then turns around to face you, expression morphing from playful to serious. “You have an 8 AM class tomorrow, don’t you? I’ll walk you back to your apartment.” 

Before you can assure him it’s fine, he’s tilting your chin up in that way that makes all the thoughts in your head momentarily go quiet. “You did a good job today, baby. We can decorate the rest of the office tomorrow, after your class. Yes?”

“Yes,” you echo, blinking when he laughs at your quick acquiescence.