milo

The first time you'd really noticed him, he almost hit you with his skateboard.

It was the second week of junior year. The leaves were turning, and you were walking across the courtyard with Hana, mid-sentence about someone's ugly backpack—"I'm just saying, if you're going to spend four hundred dollars on a bag, at least make it look like four hundred dollars"—when a blur of motion came flying around the corner.

Shhk shhk shhk. Wheels on pavement. Then a body slammed into your side.

Not hard enough to knock you over. Hard enough to send your phone flying out of your hand and skidding across the concrete, face-down, the sickening crack of impact echoing off the fountain your family had donated.

"Shit—sorry—"

You stumbled, caught yourself on Hana's arm, and whipped around.

A boy you'd never seen before was already crouched down, scooping up your phone. His skateboard had rolled several feet away, still wobbling on its side. He was wearing the school uniform, but barely. The tie was missing and the top button of his shirt was undone. His dark hair was a mess under a gray beanie, and there was a small scrape on his palm where he'd caught himself.

He stood up and held out your phone.

The screen was cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spreading from the top left corner, right through your home screen. Your perfect, carefully curated home screen.

"You broke my phone," you said. Your voice was flat and cold. 

He looked at the screen. Then at you. Most people would have started apologising immediately, groveled, turned red, stammered, promised to pay for it, even got down on their knees if that's what it took.

He just shrugged. "It's just a screen. You can get it fixed."

Just a screen.

As if you hadn't spent hours picking out the perfect case. As if the crack didn't ruin the entire aesthetic of the phone you'd only had for three weeks. As if he hadn't just barreled into you like a human wrecking ball and then had the audacity to act like it was nothing.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" you asked.

He tilted his head, studying you with an expression that wasn't quite recognition. More like mild curiosity. The kind you'd give a mildly interesting bug on the sidewalk.

"No," he said. "Should I?"

Hana snorted behind you. You could feel her phone already out, probably recording or texting the group chat. 

You snatched the phone from his hand, holding it up so he could see the full extent of the damage. "This is a thousand-dollar phone."

"It was a thousand dollars," he corrected. "Now it's a thousand-dollar phone with a cracked screen. Still works, probably."

"Probably."

"Did you check?"

"No, I was too busy being hit by a skateboard."

He didn't apologise and didn't even look sorry. He just walked over to his board, kicked it up into his hand with a smooth, annoyingly practiced motion, and slung it under his arm.

"You should watch where you're going," he said. "You walked straight into my path. I had the right of way."

"Right of way?" Your voice came out half an octave higher than usual. "This isn't a road. It's a courtyard. For walking. There's no such thing as right of way."

"There's always right of way. It's basic physics. Object in motion stays in motion. You were an object. I was in motion."

"You're not a physicist. You're a guy on a toy."

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "It's not a toy."

"It's a board with wheels."

"It's transportation."

"It's a mere hobby."

"At least I have a hobby." His eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. "What's yours? Judging people? Making lists? Seeing how many compliments you can fish for in one outfit?"

Your mouth dropped open. Actually dropped. Nobody talked to you like that. Nobody. Not the teachers, not your parents, not the other kids who whispered behind your back but smiled to your face. Nobody had the nerve.

"I don't fish for compliments," you said.

"Sure you don't." He nodded at your outfit: designer boots, perfectly pressed skirt, blazer that cost more than most people's rent. "You just dress like you're going to a brunch meeting with your publicist because it's comfortable."

"I like fashion."

"You like attention, that’s obvious."

Hana made a small, strangled sound that was either a laugh or a gasp. You couldn't tell. You couldn't think. Your face was hot, your hands were shaking, and this absolute nobody was looking at you like you were a puzzle he'd already solved.

"My family donated that fountain," you said, pointing to the marble monstrosity in the center of the courtyard. "My name is on a plaque in the main hall. I could make one phone call and you'd never eat in this courtyard again."

He looked genuinely unimpressed. "Cool. Doesn't make you immune to the walkway."

And then he just walked away with his skateboard under his arm and his beanie pulled low. His shoulders were loose, like he didn't have a care in the world, like he hadn't just committed social suicide in front of half the junior class.

You stood there, frozen, watching him disappear around the corner.

"Who the hell was that?" Hana whispered.

"I don't know." You were gripping your cracked phone so hard your knuckles went white. "But he just declared war."

The next day, you found him in the cafeteria.

He was sitting alone at the end of a table, eating what looked like a convenience store sandwich. The same gray beanie. The same frayed hoodie under his uniform blazer. His skateboard was propped against the table leg, and he was scrolling through his phone with his free hand, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room was stealing glances at him.

Or maybe he wasn't oblivious and he just didn't care.

That made you angrier than anything else.

You walked straight up to him, dropped your bag on the table with a loud thump, and planted both hands on the surface before leaning in, making sure he couldn't ignore you.

"You owe me three hundred dollars for the screen repair."

He looked up slowly, still chewing on his sandwich before he eventually swallowed. 

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. You broke it."

"You dropped it." He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. "I bumped you. You dropped it. That's on you. Physics."

"Don't start with the physics again."

"Why not? It's a solid argument. Cause and effect. Your hand let go of the phone. My skateboard didn't even touch you. I touched you. With my body. Which is flesh and blood, not a weapon."

He shrugged and took another bite of his sandwich, chewing with his mouth open just to annoy you. You could tell but you didn’t say anything, too shell shocked from someone actually biting back.

"You've been thinking about me all night, haven't you?" He said, gesturing at you with the sandwich. "Couldn't sleep. Just lying there, replaying it, getting mad all over again."

Your face heated. Because he was right. You had been up half the night, tossing around, furious at the memory of his stupid face and his stupid skateboard and the way he'd looked at you like you were nothing. Like you were just another person, instead of the person.

"I don't think about you," you lied.

"Sure you don't." He picked up his sandwich again. "That's why you tracked me down in a cafeteria with like two hundred people in it. Because you don't think about me."

"I didn't track you down. I'm eating lunch."

"You don't eat in the cafeteria. Everyone knows that. You eat in the courtyard with your friends." He nodded toward the window. "The courtyard you apparently own. The one with the fountain. Your fountain. The one your family donated."

Your nails dug into the table. "How do you know where I eat?"

He shrugged. "I notice things."

Something about the way he said it so casually made your stomach flip. A tiny, traitorous flip that you refused to acknowledge.

"Three hundred dollars," you repeated.

"Zero dollars."

"Two hundred, then."

"Still zero."

"One hundred and fifty. Final offer."

He set down his sandwich and looked at you properly for the first time. His eyes were dark and warm, with little gold flecks you hadn't noticed before, not that you cared anyways.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Never."

He sighed theatrically and reached into his pocket. Pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Worn soft, the edges frayed. He slid it across the table toward you.

"That's all I have. Take it or leave it."

You stared at the twenty. Then at him. Then back at the twenty.

"You're serious."

"I'm a skateboarder, not a trust fund kid. Sorry I don't have a fountain donation in my back pocket."

The jab hit exactly where he meant it to. You snatched the twenty off the table and stuffed it into your blazer pocket.

"This isn't over," you said.

"I know." He picked up his sandwich again. "See you tomorrow, fountain girl."

"It's Y/N."

"I know that too."

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make you want to throw something at his head.

You turned on your heel and walked away, Hana falling into step beside you, already asking a million questions you didn't have answers to.

After that, the arguments became routine.

Every day, you found a reason to cross paths with him. Every day, he had a lazy comeback that made your blood boil. Every day, you walked away angrier than before, promising yourself that tomorrow you'd ignore him completely.

And every day, you never did.

"You're obsessed with him," Hana said one afternoon, watching you scan the courtyard for the familiar gray beanie.

"I'm not obsessed, I'm just dedicated like I always am."

"No, this is something else."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been looking for him for ten minutes. We haven't even sat down yet."

"I'm not looking. I'm observing my environment."

Hana gave you a long, flat look. "Your environment is a courtyard full of people eating lunch. What exactly are you observing?"

You spotted him near the bike racks where he’d moved to eat lunch after your canteen run in, the same as every other day, lacing up his skate shoes, and your feet were already moving before your brain could catch up.

"Keonho!"

He looked up, and that small smile appeared. The one that made you want to scream.

"Fountain girl. Right on time."

"Don't call me that."

"Okay… princess." He said it under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch. Your jaw dropped.

"Princess? Did you just call me princess?"

"You heard me." He didn't even look guilty. Just went back to tying his laces, all casual, like he hadn't just committed a felony against your entire brand. "You prefer 'your highness'? Because that feels like a mouthful. Lots of syllables. I might get tired halfway through."

"I prefer my name."

"Right. Y/N." He drew out the syllables like he was tasting them. "Y/N, who crossed the entire courtyard just to yell at me about a twenty-dollar bill I already gave you. A transaction which we both agreed was final."

"That twenty dollars didn't even cover the tax on the repair."

"Not my problem."

"Everything is your problem. You're the one who hit me with your skateboard."

"You walked into me."

"I was walking. On my feet. Like a normal person."

"So was I. On my skateboard. Which is a form of transportation, last time I checked. Legally recognised. Some cities have lanes."

"Skateboards don't belong in lanes. Skateboards don't belong anywhere near people."

"They belong everywhere. That's the beauty of it. I can go anywhere. No rules or restrictions. Just me and the board and the open road."

"You sound like some lame commercial."

"You sound like you've never had fun a day in your life."

The words landed. You felt them land. Your face went hot, then cold, then hot again.

"I have plenty of fun."

"Name one fun thing you've done in the past month."

"I—that's—that's none of your business."

"That's what I thought." He stood up, grabbing his board. "No fun. Just school and social obligations and making sure everyone knows you're the most important person in the room."

"I don't have to make sure. Everyone already knows."

"Sure they do." He spun the board in his hand, a lazy, practiced motion. "That's why you're here. Talking to me. Because everyone already knows how important you are, and you're bored of it."

"I'm not bored."

"You're definitely bored. You're the most bored person I've ever met. You have everything, and you're still bored. That's kind of sad, actually."

Your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking. How on earth could he read you so easily?

"You don't know anything about me," you said quietly.

"I know you're still standing here." He tilted his head, those dark eyes boring into yours. "I know you could have walked away five minutes ago. I know you didn't. I know you won't."

"Maybe I will."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "But probably not."

He started walking, and you fell into step beside him without thinking. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"I've been eating lunch by the bike racks for two months since you banished me from the canteen," he said. "You'd never been here once before that. Not once. Now suddenly you're here every day?"

"Maybe I wanted a change of scenery."

"Maybe you wanted a change of someone."

You stopped walking. He stopped too, a few steps ahead, looking back at you with that insufferable half-smile.

"What is that supposed to mean?" you asked.

He turned to face you fully. The courtyard was mostly empty, everyone else already inside. It was just you and him and the sound of wind through the bike racks.

"It means," he said, taking a step closer, "that you're not as complicated as you think you are. You've got your perfect life and your perfect friends and your perfect little routines, and you're bored. And I'm the only thing in this school that doesn't bore you."

"That's not—"

"It means," he continued, like you hadn't spoken, "that you don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me."

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. "And what do you want to do with me?"

The question hung between you, heavier than you'd intended. His smile faded, just slightly, and for a second he looked almost... serious. Almost vulnerable.

"I don't know yet," he said. "Guess we’ll have to figure it out."

He turned and kept walking toward the side door of the science building.

"Hey, Keonho?" you called out.

He looked back.

"You still owe me a hundred and thirty dollars."

His laugh echoed across the empty courtyard. "Keep dreaming, fountain girl."

"Stop calling me that!"

"In your dreams!"

You grabbed a pebble from the ground and threw it at him. He dodged it easily, grinning, and disappeared through the door.

You stood there for a long moment, alone in the cold, your left eyebrow doing something you couldn't control.

You don't actually hate me. You just don't know what else to do with me.

The worst part was, you were starting to think he was right.

Weeks continued like that. The arguments became the best part of your day.

It was strange, admitting it to yourself. You'd spent years building a life that was supposed to make you happy: the right friends, the right clothes, the right words at the right times. You were good at it. Everyone said so. You had everything anyone could want.

But nothing had ever made your heart race like stepping into the courtyard and spotting that gray beanie.

Some days you found him at the bike racks. Some days near the vending machines. Some days you'd round a corner and there he'd be, like he'd been waiting, like he knew you were coming before you did.

"You're late, princess,” he said one Tuesday, not looking up from his phone.

"I'm not late. Class ran over."

"Excuses."

"It's not an excuse. It's an explanation."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

He looked up then, and that small smile was there. The one that made your stomach flip.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?"

"Obviously."

"So do I."

"Then we have a problem."

"We've always had a problem." He pocketed his phone and leaned back against the bike rack, arms crossed. "That's kind of our whole thing."

You hated how easily he said it. Our whole thing. Like there was an us to have a thing.

"There is no our," you said.

"Sure there isn't." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "That's why you're here. Every day. Like clockwork."

"I'm here because the courtyard is crowded."

"The courtyard is always crowded. You've been eating there for two years. You never left before."

Your jaw tightened. "Maybe I wanted a change."

"Maybe you wanted me."

Your heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed. "That's—you're—no."

He laughed. Actually laughed, his whole face lighting up in a way you'd never seen before. It was annoyingly beautiful. His nose crinkled and his eyes disappeared into crescents. He looked like a completely different person.

"Your face is so red right now," he said.

"It is not."

"It's the color of your bag."

You looked down at your pink designer handbag. You wanted to throw it at him.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

He seemed to be the only person able to leave you speechless

The turning point was February. Valentine's Day, actually, which made it worse.

You'd been crying in the greenhouse behind the science wing. Not because you were sad, exactly. Because your mother had called and she'd reminded you, in that sweet, sharp voice she used when she was disappointed, that your "little art hobby"— the one thing you actually cared about, that made you feel like a real person instead of a performance—was "lovely but impractical." That you should probably focus on something that would "actually matter" in college applications. That there were expectations.

You'd thought you were alone.

You hadn't been.

Keonho was sitting in the corner, behind a rack of potted ferns, eating a granola bar. He had his beanie pulled low and his knees drawn up. He'd clearly been there first. Maybe he'd been there for a while.

"Go away," you said, your voice thick.

He didn't move. "No."

"I said go away, Keonho."

"And I said no." He took another bite of his granola bar, chewing slowly. "You're not gonna throw things at me, are you? Because you have scary good aim and I'm not trying to catch a rock with my face."

You stared at him, tears still wet on your cheeks, too exhausted to even be properly angry. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like you don't care about anything."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I care about stuff. I just don't care about the stuff you're supposed to care about."

Something about that, the simplicity of it, the way he said it like it was obvious, made something crack inside you.

You sat down on the dirty greenhouse floor. Right across from him. And you cried for real. Not pretty tears. The ugly ones that left your face blotchy and your nose running and every single wall you'd ever built crumbling into dust.

He didn't say anything. Didn't try to comfort you with empty words. He just handed you a crumpled napkin from his pocket and waited.

When you'd finally stopped, you looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and said, "If you tell anyone about this, I will end you."

"I know," he said. And then, so quietly you almost missed it: "I won't."

You sat there for a long time in silence. The greenhouse was warm and smelled like dirt and flowers, the ferns cast dancing shadows on the floor. Eventually you pushed yourself up, walking away without looking back.

After that, the hatred started to feel different.

Like a game neither of you were really playing anymore, but neither of you knew how to stop. The insults got softer. The fights got shorter. You found yourself seeking him out in crowds, just to see what he was doing, just to make sure he was still there.

"I think he likes you," Hana said one afternoon, and you laughed so hard you choked.

"He doesn't like me. He's messing with me."

"That’s the same thing sometimes."

It wasn't the same thing. It couldn't be. Because you didn't do boys like Keonho. You did boys with trust funds and family names and futures already planned out. Boys who understood the rules and played by them. Boys who would never dream of sitting on a dirty greenhouse floor or eating convenience store sandwiches or looking at you like they could see every single crack in your armour.

You didn't do boys who made you feel seen.

But maybe that was exactly the problem.

"Judging me again, princess?"

He was sat under the bleachers, back against the chain-link fence, knees drawn up with his skateboard across his lap. The afternoon light filtered through the metal slats, casting stripes of gold and shadow across his face. His beanie was crooked, his uniform shirt untucked, and he was looking up at you like you were exactly who he'd been waiting for.

You stood in front of him with your arms crossed, heels sinking slightly into the dirt. "I'm not judging. I'm wondering how you haven't been expelled yet."

"Charming."

"I'm serious. You don't do the work. You don't follow the rules. You show up late every single day. What's the point of even being here?"

He set his skateboard aside and leaned back on his hands, tilting his face up toward you. "Free wifi. Heated building. Sometimes they hand out granola bars in the front office."

"That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be funny. Was trying to be honest." He shrugged. "You should try it sometime."

"I'm always honest."

"No you're not." His voice was flat. Certain. "You've never had an honest conversation in your life. You just say whatever keeps you on top."

Your jaw tightened. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you fake-laugh when your friends make jokes that aren't funny, which is all the time. I know you wait until everyone's looking before you do anything nice. I know you've never apologised to anyone for anything, ever, because that would mean admitting you were wrong." He tilted his head. "Should I keep going?"

"You don't know me."

"I know you better than your friends do."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're insufferable." Your voice was rising now. You could feel the heat climbing up your neck, the tightness in your chest. "You think you're so smart. You think you've got everyone figured out. But you're just a guy with a skateboard and a chip on his shoulder who can't even afford—"

You stopped yourself. The words hung in the air, half-finished.

He stood up slowly. Brushed the dirt off his pants. His face had gone very still.

"Can't even afford what?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"Nothing."

"No, go ahead. You were saying something. Don't stop now."

"Keonho—"

"Can't even afford what, Y/N?" He stepped closer. "New shoes? A car that isn't fifteen years old? Lunch that didn't come from a gas station? What was it? What were you about to say?"

You took a step back. Your heel caught on a rock. You stumbled, caught yourself, and hated him for making you stumble.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were. You always are. That's your whole thing." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You walk around this school like everyone beneath you is a bug you might step on. You think I don't notice? You think I don't see the way you look at me?"

"How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm dirt." He jabbed a finger toward his own chest. "Like I'm something you stepped in and can't scrape off your shoe. And you know what? Fine. I don't care. I've been looked at like that my whole life. By people richer than you. By people meaner than you. By people who actually had a reason."

"I have a reason."

"What reason? Because I bumped into you one time? Because I didn't fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness when your precious phone cracked?"

"You called me fountain girl."

"And you’ve called me poor."

You flinched. He saw it. His eyes narrowed.

"I didn't mean—"

"You’ve meant every word. That's what kills me. You're not even pretending to be sorry. You just stand there with your arms crossed and your perfect hair and your perfect shoes and you look at me like I'm the problem."

"You are the problem!"

"How? How am I the problem, Y/N? Because I don't bow down to you? Because I don't laugh at your jokes? Because I won't pretend you're something you're not?"

"Because you won't just leave me alone!"

The words tore out of you. Loud and raw, echoing off the metal bleachers above.

He stopped. Blinked.

"You heard me," you said, your voice shaking now. "You won't leave me alone. You're everywhere. The bike racks. The vending machines. The greenhouse. Every time I turn around, there you are, with your stupid beanie and your stupid skateboard and your stupid eyes."

"So now I'm the problem because I exist?"

"Yes! No! I don't—" You pressed your hands to your face, breathed in, breathed out. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"Yes you do. You're saying you can't stop thinking about me."

Your hands dropped. "That is not what I'm saying."

"That's exactly what you're saying. You're just too proud to admit it."

"I am not—"

"You are. You're standing under a set of bleachers with me instead of eating lunch with your friends. You're shouting at me instead of ignoring me like you ignore everyone else. You're here, Y/N. You've always been here. You just don't want to admit why."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"Then tell me yourself. What do you want?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples.

"Nothing," you said.

"Liar."

"I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop making me feel like—like—" Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. You hated him for making it crack. "Like I'm not allowed to just dislike you. Like I have to have a reason. Like I have to justify it."

"You don't have to justify anything. You just have to admit it's not dislike."

"It is dislike."

"It's not." He stepped closer. "You don't seek out people you dislike. You avoid them. You destroy them. You don't show up to them every single day with your arms crossed and your face flushed like—"

"My face is not flushed."

"Your face is so flushed right now." He laughed. Not the mean laugh from before. Something almost... fond.

You stood there, frozen, your arms still crossed, your heart still pounding, your face definitely still flushed. He was too close. He'd been too close for months. Too close in the hallways, too close in the greenhouse, too close in every argument that had somehow become the best part of your day.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Then why are you still here?"

The question hung between you. Heavy. Electric. Inevitable.

"Because—" You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Because I don't know what to do when I'm not here."

His expression shifted. The teasing faded. Something else took its place: something softer, something almost tender.

"Y/N—"

"Don't." You held up a hand. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you care."

"Maybe I do."

"Well, stop. People don't care about me. They're afraid of me. That’s how it’s supposed to be."

"Maybe," he agreed quietly. "But I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

"Then you're stupid."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Or maybe I just see something everyone else is too scared to look at."

Your throat was tight. Your eyes were burning. You weren't going to cry. You weren't. You'd cried in front of him once and you'd sworn you'd never do it again.

"What do you see?" The words came out smaller than you wanted. Quieter.

He stepped close enough to the point that you could smell him: cold air and soap and something warm underneath.

"I see someone who's exhausted," he said. "Someone who's been performing for so long she forgot there was a person underneath. Someone who's smart and talented and so terrified of being ordinary that she'd rather be hated than ignored."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me what I'm missing. Tell me what I'm saying wrong. Tell me you don't lie awake at night wondering what it would be like to just stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop performing. Stop pretending. Stop being the person everyone expects you to be." His voice dropped. "Tell me you've never looked at me and thought about being free."

Your breath caught.

"I've seen you," he continued, quieter now. "In the art room. When you think no one's watching. You make things; real things, messy things, things that aren't for anyone but you. That's who you are. That's who you could be all the time if you weren't so busy being who everyone else wants you to be."

"You don't know anything about my art."

"I know you're good at it. I know you care about it more than anything else in your life. I know you'd rather be in that room than anywhere else in the world."

"Stop."

"And I know," he said, stepping even closer, "that you feel more alive arguing with me than you do with anyone else."

"Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Because you're—because you can't just—because—" Your voice was rising again, cracking again, falling apart in your hands. "Because you don't get to stand there and see me like that. Because no one sees me like that. Because if you see me like that, then I have to be real, and I don't know how to be real, I only know how to be her—"

"Then stop being her."

"I can't—"

"Yes you can." He grabbed your arms, not hard, just firm enough to stop you from pacing, from running, from falling apart completely. "You can. You just don't want to."

"I don't know how."

"Then let me help you."

"You can't help me. You're just a guy with a skateboard. You don't have a plan. You don't have a future. You don't have anything."

The words landed like stones. Heavy and unforgivable.

His hands dropped from your arms. His face went blank.

"Wow," he said quietly. "Okay."

"Keonho—"

"No, you're right. I don't have anything. I don't have a trust fund. I don't have a fountain with my name on it. I don't have a future planned out for me by people who care more about appearances than they care about me."

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant." He stepped back. "It's what you always mean. You just said it out loud this time."

"I didn't—I was angry—"

"You're always angry. That's not an excuse."

"I know, I just—"

"You just what? You just wanted to hurt me? Congratulations. You did." He ran a hand over his beanie, hair poking out at the ends. "You always do. And I always let you. Because some part of me thought maybe underneath all the armour there was someone worth waiting for."

Your heart stopped.

"But maybe I was wrong," he said. "Maybe there's no one underneath at all. Maybe you're just the armour."

"That's not—"

"Then prove it." His voice cracked on the last word. "Prove me wrong. Show me there's someone in there. Just once. Just for a second. Please."

That broke something in you.

You didn't think. You just moved.

You grabbed the front of his stupid, frayed, too-big shirt,and yanked him down. The fabric bunched in your fists, pulling him off balance, forcing him to stumble forward into your space as you twisted awkwardly. His hands shot out instinctively, bracing against the chain-link fence on either side of you, caging you in without meaning to.

And then your mouth was on his.

It wasn't gentle or soft. It was months of frustration and confusion and the unbearable weight of being seen finally cracking open. You kissed him like you were trying to win an argument. Like you were trying to prove a point. Like you were trying to shove every word you'd never said directly into his lungs and make him breathe them.

Your lips crashed against his, off-center at first, your nose bumping his jaw before you corrected course. You didn't care. You couldn't care. Your fingers were still twisted in his shirt, knuckles pressed against his collarbone, and you were pulling him closer even as you were kissing him harder.

His lips were warm and softer than you expected for a boy who spent his afternoons falling off skateboards. The contrast sent something sharp and electric down your spine.

For a single, suspended second, he was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen. His body went rigid against yours, his hands still pressed flat to the fence, his lips parted but unresponsive beneath yours. You could feel his breath: caught somewhere between an inhale and an exhale, trapped in his throat like he'd forgotten how to let it out.

Then something shifted.

His hands uncurled from the fence. His fingers found your waist, the touch light at first, almost questioning, as if he was waiting for you to shove him away.

You didn't.

You kissed him harder. 

His lips finallymoved against yours. Slowly at first, like he was waking up from a long sleep. He tilted his head, adjusting the angle, and suddenly the kiss fit differently: better, deeper. 

Your fingers loosened in his shirt, then tightened again, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. His chest pressed against yours, firm and solid. His heart was pounding—you could feel it, or maybe that was your own heart, maybe they'd synced up somewhere in the chaos of the kiss. You couldn't tell anymore.

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide, pressing you into him. The other hand came up to your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone, tilting your face up to meet his more fully. He kissed you deeper now, with more confidence, like he'd finally caught up to what was happening and was making up for lost time.

Your head was spinning. Your lungs were burning. You couldn't remember how to breathe through your nose, and you didn't care, because pulling away meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant admitting what you'd just done.

So you didn't stop.

You kissed him until your lips were numb. You kissed him until his thumb was tracing patterns on your jaw and his other hand was pressed flat against your spine and the chain-link fence was digging into his knuckles and neither of you cared. You kissed him like you were trying to crawl inside his skin, like you were trying to prove that you were more than armour, like you were trying to make him understand something you didn't have words for.

And then, finally, you pulled back.

Your hands uncurled from his shirt. The fabric was wrinkled now, permanently creased where your fists had been. You sideways, one step, then two, putting distance between you. Your heels sank into the dirt. Your chest was heaving. Your lips were swollen and wet and tingling.

You crossed your arms. Locked your knees. Lifted your chin.

And you looked at him with the most neutral expression you could muster.

"You talk too much."

Keonho was still standing before the fence. His hands were braced where you had left them, fingers curled around the chain-link like he needed it to stay upright. His beanie had slipped sideways, and a strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and his lips were parted, pinker than before, slightly swollen.

He looked like someone had reached into his chest, rearranged his organs, and forgotten to put them back in the right order.

"You—" His voice came out rough. Cracked. He stopped, swallowed, and tried again, turning to face you fully. "You just—"

"I just what?"

"You kissed me."

"Did I?" You tilted your head, fighting the smile threatening to break across your face. 

He blinked. Once, then twice. His hands dropped from the fence, and he ran one of them over his mouth, fingers pressing against his lower lip like he was checking to make sure it was still there.

"I'm—you can't just—" He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his beanie entirely. It fell to the ground. He didn't pick it up. "You can't just kiss someone and then act like—like that—"

"Like what?"

"Like you didn't just short-circuit my entire brain."

You shrugged. One shoulder. Casual. Like your whole world hadn't just flipped upside down, and your lips weren't still buzzing, and your heart wasn't threatening to beat its way out of your ribcage.

"Maybe you should stop talking so much," you said. "I warned you."

"You didn't warn me about anything—"

"I've been warning you for months."

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

And then something shifted in his expression, the shock faded, the confusion cleared,  something else took its place.

"You think you're funny," he said slowly.

"I think I'm hilarious."

He was at a loss for words and you watched him struggle, try to reach for words that weren't there, his hands flexing at his sides as if he was trying to physically grasp a sentence and failing. His chest was still rising and falling too fast. His lips were still parted. His eyes kept darting from your eyes to your mouth and back again, like he couldn't decide which one to focus on.

"You're staring," you said.

"I'm not staring. I'm... processing."

"Process faster. You're making it weird."

"I'm making it weird?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You just—you just kissed me. Out of nowhere. In the middle of an argument. While I was begging you to be real with me for one second. And now you're standing there like you didn't just—like you didn't—" He gestured vaguely at the space between you, at his mouth, at the air itself. "Like you didn't just do that."

"What do you want me to do? Apologise?"

"I want you to acknowledge it!"

"I acknowledged it. I kissed you. You were there. You felt it."

"That's not—that's not acknowledging it, that's just doing it—"

"Same thing."

"It's really not!"

"It really is."

There was a beat of silence. He stared at you and you stared back. The afternoon light shifted, stripes of gold sliding across his face, catching the flush on his cheekbones.

The wind picked up, rattling the chain-link fence beside him. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. The world was still moving, still spinning, still completely unaware that yours had just cracked open and rearranged itself into something you didn't recognise.

Keonho bent down and picked up his beanie. He didn't put it back on. Just held it in his hands, twisting the fabric, avoiding your eyes.

"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me."

"You asked me to prove you wrong."

"That's not—" He let out a breath, slow and shaky. "That's not a reason."

"Sure it is."

"No, it's not. It's an impulse. It's a reaction. It's not a reason." He looked up at you then, and his eyes were different: softer, almost vulnerable, stripped of the emotionless facade he usually wore. "I've been asking you for months. Months. To just be honest with me for five seconds. And you finally do something real, and I just... I need to know why. It wasn’t just because you were trying to win an argument or to shut me up, you know that. Just tell me why."

Your throat tightened.

You could lie. You were good at lying. You'd been lying your whole life, to everyone, about everything. You could tell him it meant nothing, and you were just frustrated. You could tell him a hundred different things that would make this easier, simpler, less terrifying.

But he was looking at you like he could see every crack and he'd been waiting inside one of them for months just hoping you'd eventually climb down to meet him.

"Because I couldn't not," you said.

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"I couldn't not do it." Your voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness. "You were standing there, and you were saying all those things, and you were looking at me like… like you actually wanted to see me." You paused, swallowed, forced yourself to continue. "And I thought about walking away. I thought about saying something mean. I thought about every single thing I usually do to keep people at a distance. And then I thought—what if I just... didn't. For once. What if I just did what I actually wanted to do instead of what I was supposed to do."

"And what did you actually want to do?"

You met his eyes. Held his gaze. Let him see.

"I wanted to kiss you," you said. "I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I wasn’t keeping track."

The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and enormous.

Keonho didn't move. Didn't speak. His hands had stopped twisting his beanie. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and unreadable.

"You're not joking," he said finally.

"No."

"You're not trying to mess with me."

"No."

"You actually—" He stopped, swallowed, then started again. "You actually want—"

"Don't make me say it again."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not good at this. I'm not good at being real. You know that. I’ve never known how to be anything other than what I’ve always been at this stupid school."

"And now?"

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking. You curled them into fists, then uncurled them, then curled them again.

"Now I don't know what I am," you admitted. "But I know I'm still standing here with you and I'm not running away."

He took a step closer and his beanie dropped to the ground again, forgotten.

"You're really bad at this," he said softly.

"I know."

"The whole vulnerability thing. You're terrible at it."

"I know."

"It's kind of endearing, actually."

"Keonho."

"Y/N." He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the small scar on his chin, the way his lips were still slightly swollen from your mouth. "You kissed me."

"I'm aware."

"You said you've wanted to for weeks."

"I'm aware of that too."

"And now you're standing here, shaking, looking at me like you're about to either kiss me again or throw up."

"I’m not throwing up—"

"So kiss me again."

Your heart stopped.

"What?"

"You heard me." His voice was low, steady, certain. "You kissed me to prove a point. Now kiss me because you want to. No argument. Just you and me."

You looked at him and saw it all: the mess of his hair from his hand running through it too much, the frayed shirt collar, the dark eyes that had been seeing you for months when no one else bothered to look.

"You're annoying," you finally whispered.

"I know."

"You're insufferable."

"I know."

"You're—"

He kissed you to shut you up and it was nothing like the first kiss.

His fingers slid into your hair at the nape of your neck, not pulling, just there, a warm weight against your scalp. His other hand found your waist again, palm spanned the curve of your side like he was memorising the shape of it. His thumbs pressed lightly into the fabric of your shirt, and you could feel each individual fingertip through the thin material.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Where your mouth had been frantic and desperate against his, his was deliberate. Measured. His lips moved over yours slowly, like he was learning you from the start, like he was tracing the outline of something he'd been waiting to touch for months. He started at the center, pressing his mouth to the seam of your lips, then tilted his head and tried again from a different angle. And again. And again. Each kiss was a question. Each press of his lips was a sentence he didn't need words for.

Your hands, which had been hanging uselessly at your sides, found their way to his chest. Not pushing him away, nor pulling him closer. Just resting there, palms flat against the worn cotton of his shirt, feeling his heartbeat under your fingers. It was fast, much faster than his movements suggested. The contrast made something in your chest tighten.

He pulled back just far enough to breathe, his forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were still closed. His lips were parted, slightly swollen, and you could feel his breath warm against your mouth.

You stayed like that for a moment, his thumb still tracing small circles on your waist and his fingers still tangled in your hair. The world under the bleachers had gone completely silent, like even the wind was holding its breath.

Then he kissed you again.

This time, his mouth was softer. He brushed his lips over yours once, feather-light, then again, then a third time, each touch gentler than the last. It was as though he was asking permission for something he'd already been given and he couldn't quite believe you were still there.

When he finally pulled back, after many more minutes, his eyes were open and he was watching you like you were something precious and breakable and he was terrified of dropping you.

His thumb came up to brush across your lower lip, where his had just been. The touch was so light it was almost not there.

"Say something," he whispered.

You couldn't. Your voice was gone, lost somewhere in your throat, buried under the weight of everything you'd just felt.

So instead, you pulled him down by his shirt again. And you kissed him.

Slower and far more certain this time.

His mouth met yours halfway. His hand cradled the back of your head. His body pressed against yours from chest to hip, and you could feel the warmth of him through both your shirts, solid and real and there.

You kissed him until your lips were numb and your lungs were burning and you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

And that was the start of whatever was going on between the two of you.

Neither of you named it. Not that day under the bleachers, not in the weeks that followed, not even when you found yourself seeking him out between classes or staying late after school just to walk with him. There was no conversation about what you were, no labels, no promises. Just the quiet, unspoken understanding that something had shifted, and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The arguments didn't stop. If anything, they got worse.

Because you were still you: sharp-tongued and quick to deflect, armoured in expensive clothes and sharper smiles. And he was still him: infuriating and observant, unwilling to let you hide behind your walls now that he'd seen what was underneath. You'd crack open for him once and now he expected cracks all the time. Expected you to be soft. Expected you to be real.

And you couldn't. Not when the hallways were full of eyes and the courtyard was full of whispers and your whole life was a performance you'd been rehearsing since birth.

So you fought. Loudly and publicly. You called him a burnout to his face in front of the vending machines. He called you a robot in front of the bike racks. You told him he had no future ahead. He told you your designer bag cost more than his mom's rent and what did that say about you, really?

People stared. People whispered. People placed bets on when one of you would finally snap.

What they didn't see was what happened after.

The way you'd find him behind the gym twenty minutes later, breathless from running, your hands shaking as you grabbed his shirt. The way he'd already be waiting, like he knew you'd come, like he'd been counting on it. The way he'd pull you into the shadow of the building and kiss you like the argument had never happened—or like it had, and this was the only way to finish it.

"You're late," he'd murmur against your mouth.

"I hate you," you'd breathe back.

"Sure you do."

And then you'd kiss properly, desperate and hungry, your fingers twisting in his frayed collar, his hands pressing into your waist. You'd stay there until the bell rang, until the world demanded you return to your separate lives, until you could compose your face into something that didn't look like a girl who'd just been kissed within an inch of her sanity.

Then you'd walk back to class. Straighten your skirt. Lift your chin. And pretend nothing had happened.

People noticed, though. How could they not?

You'd always been careful; meticulous, even. You knew where every camera was, where every teacher stood during passing periods, which stairwells stayed empty and which bathrooms had broken locks. You'd spent years cultivating your image, protecting your reputation, making sure no one ever saw anything you didn't want them to see.

But Keonho made you sloppy.

It started small. A hallway glance that lasted a second too long. A pause by the bike racks when you should have kept walking. The way your eyes shone when they tracked him across the courtyard, following the gray beanie like a compass pointing north.

Hana noticed first, because Hana noticed everything.

"You keep looking at him weird," she said one day at lunch, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

"I'm not looking at him weird."

"Y/n, you literally look at him like he’s the answer to everything."

"I’m looking at him the same as I’ve always done."

Hana stared at you. You stared at your salad.

"You're seeing him, aren't you?" she said quietly. "Like, seeing him seeing him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Y/N."

"Hana."

She leaned closer, dropping her voice. "I saw you. Last week. Behind the science building."

Your heart stopped and your face went cold. "You saw what?"

"Nothing. I didn't see anything. That's the point." She paused. "But I saw you go behind the science building. And I saw him go behind the science building. And then you both came out five minutes later looking like—" She gestured at your face. "Like that."

"Like what?"

"Like someone who just got kissed and is trying really hard to pretend she didn't."

You set down your fork very carefully.

"You didn't see anything," you said.

"I know."

"Because there's nothing to see."

"I know."

"And if you tell anyone—"

"I won't." Hana held up her hands. "I'm not an idiot. I'm just... surprised."

"At what?"

"That you picked him." She glanced across the courtyard, where Keonho was sitting alone by the bike racks, eating his usual gas station sandwich. "I mean, he's cute. In a scruffy way. But he's not exactly... you know."

"Not exactly what?"

"Your type."

You looked down at your salad. At your perfectly manicured nails. At the designer bag hanging off the back of your chair.

"Maybe I don't have a type," you said.

Hana didn't respond. She didn't have to. Her silence said everything.

After that, you tried to be more careful.

You stopped seeking him out between classes, started taking different routes to the vending machines, sat with your back to the bike racks so you wouldn't be tempted to look.

It lasted three days.

On the fourth day, you found yourself behind the art building at 3:15, your back against the brick wall, his body pressed against yours, his mouth locked on yours.

"We have to stop," you whispered, even as your fingers tightened in his hair.

"I know," he murmured against your lips.

"We're being stupid."

"The stupidest."

"Someone's going to see."

He pulled back just enough to look at you with slightly swollen lips.

"Then stop me," he said.

You didn't.

You kissed him instead. Harder than before. As though you were trying to memorise the shape of his mouth, the taste of his breath, the way his hands felt on your waist.

And you were terrified of how much you didn't want to stop.

The first time anyone properly saw you alone together was behind the bleachers.

Someone's little brother was looking for a lost phone and he found you instead.

You were sitting with your back against the fence. Keonho was lying with his head in your lap, eyes closed, your fingers absently running through his hair. Neither of you was talking. Neither of you was fighting. You just... existed.

His hair was softer than you expected. His breathing had evened out until you weren't sure if he was awake or asleep. The late afternoon sun made everything gold and warm and stupidly cinematic.

You should have moved. The moment you heard footsteps crunching on the gravel, you should have shoved him off and stood up and smoothed down your skirt and pretended this never happened. The old you would have sensed someone coming from a hundred yards away. The old you was always watching, always calculating, always performing.

But the old you hadn't spent the last hour with her fingers in Keonho's hair, watching the clouds drift past, feeling something in her chest unfurl like a flower she'd forgotten she'd planted.

You looked up. The kid was standing at the edge of the bleachers, frozen mid-step. His mouth was open. His phone was in his hand, must have found it, and you realised with a sinking feeling that he'd been taking pictures. Or filming. Or both.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he. For one long, suspended second, the three of you existed in perfect, terrible stillness: you with your hands still in Keonho's hair, Keonho still half-asleep and oblivious, the kid staring like he'd just witnessed a unicorn.

Then the kid turned and ran.

His footsteps echoed off the floor, fast and frantic, disappearing around the corner. 

Keonho stirred. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Sounded like someone running."

"It was nothing." You pulled your hand out of his hair and your fingers felt cold without him. "We should go."

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He looked at your face and something in his expression shifted.

"Someone saw us," he said. Not a question.

"Someone's little brother."

"Did he—"

"He had a phone."

Keonho was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned back on his hands and tilted his face toward the sky.

"Well," he said. "That's that, then."

"What do you mean, that's that?"

"I mean people are going to talk. Your friends are going to freak out. The whole school's going to know by tomorrow morning." He looked at you sideways. "You okay with that?"

You should have said no. You should have stood up and walked away and never looked back. You should have spent the rest of the week damage-controlling, spin-doctoring, finding ways to convince everyone that what they'd seen wasn't what they thought.

Instead you said, "I don't know."

Keonho nodded and didn't push any further.

"Come on," he said, standing up and offering you his hand. "I'll walk you to your car."

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, your fingers lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary.

"Your hair's a mess," you said.

"You're the one who did it."

"You shouldn't have fallen asleep on me."

"You shouldn't have been playing with my hair."

You took a good look at him: his crooked smile and his tired eyes and his stupid, beautiful, infuriating face.

“Your hair was too soft for me to stop," you said quietly.

His smile softened and he squeezed your hand once before letting go.

"Come on, fountain girl. Let's go cause some rumors."

The school lost its collective mind.

The photos spread like wildfire, your friends asked countless questions on if you were really dating him of all people.

Hana seemed to be the only one capable of at least showing a bit of support, in her own way of course.

"Okay, I don't understand it and I think you're making a mistake and I think you're going to get hurt." She reached to take your hand. "But you're my best friend. And if this is what you want then I'm not going to stand in your way."

"He's not—I don't—" You stopped. Took a breath. "I don't know what I want. I just know I'm tired of pretending I have it all figured out."

Hana squeezed your hand. "Then stop pretending."

You looked down at your joined hands and saw her perfectly manicured nails next to yours. 

"I don't know how," you admitted.

"Figure it out." She let go of your hand. Leaned back in her chair. "But do me a favor?"

"What?

"Next time you're going to make out with the skateboard boy behind the bleachers, maybe pick a spot without a line of sight to the school."

Your face went hot. "We weren't making out—"

"Your lips in those photos say otherwise."

"The photos weren’t taken after we—he was sleeping—"

"Sure he was."

“He was! His head was in my lap and he fell asleep and he I was just playing—”

“Uh huh.”

"Hana."

"Y/N." She smiled a real smile, the first one you'd seen from her all day. "I'm teasing. Mostly. But seriously. If you're going to be with him, be with him. Don't sneak around, or lie, or pretend he's something you're ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed of him."

"Then don't act like you are."

And from then on, you didn’t hide. You stopped crossing to the other side of the hallway when you saw him coming. Stopped pretending not to know where he ate lunch. Stopped taking the long way to class just to avoid being seen walking next to him.

Everyone now knew that you two were a thing of some sorts, and maybe it was better that they all knew. The secrecy had been exhausting. The sneaking around, the lying by omission, the constant fear of being caught; it had been eating at you, wearing you down, making you someone you didn't want to be.

Now there was nothing to hide.

You no longer had to explain why you’d stopped driving to school just to be able to walk with him, his skateboard rolling beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours and your shoulders bumping as you talked. Or the new scratches on your knees, the scuffs on your formerly pristine shoes, the tiny bruise on your palm from catching yourself when you fell from Keonho attempting to teach you to ride his skateboard.

"You're doing it wrong," he said one afternoon, watching you wobble across the parking lot after school.

"I'm doing it exactly the way you showed me."

"You're doing it exactly the way I told you not to."

"You told me to not lean back, so I'm leaning forward."

"Don't do that either." He ran his free hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grab your arm, steadying you before you could tip over. His fingers wrapped around your bicep firmly, keeping you upright. "Leaning forward is just as bad as leaning back. Actually, it's worse. When you lean forward, the board shoots out from under you and you land on your face."

"I'd rather land on my face than on my back because I’ll catch myself before I hit the ground."

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"I've said stupider things."

"Name one."

"I told Mina her new haircut looked good."

He stared at you. "That's not stupid. That's just mean."

"It was stupid and mean. Her haircut was terrible."

He adjusted his grip on your arm, his thumb pressing into the inside of your elbow. "Okay. Listen. Actually listen this time."

"I always listen."

"You listen to argue, not learn."

"I don't know what that means."

"Yes you do."

"Stop talking."

"Stop proving me right." He stepped around to face you, both hands on your arms now, looking down at you with that exasperated expression you'd grown weirdly fond of. "Keep your weight centered. Right over the board. Imagine there's a string pulling you up from the top of your head."

"That's the worst visualisation I've ever heard."

"It works."

"It works for you because you're weird."

"I'm not weird. I'm effective."

"You're weird and ineffective."

"I taught myself to skateboard when I was twelve. I think I know what I'm talking about."

"You taught yourself. That explains why you're such a bad teacher."

"I'm not a bad teacher. You're a bad student."

"I'm an excellent student. I get straight A's."

"In history. This isn't history. This is physics."

"It's a board with wheels, Keonho. It's not that deep."

"It's literally that deep. Center of gravity, momentum, weight distribution—"

"You're using big words to sound smart."

"I'm using big words because they're the right words."

"The right words are 'stand still and don't fall.'"

"The right words are 'engage your core and relax your shoulders.'"

"My core is engaged. My shoulders are relaxed."

"Your shoulders are up by your ears."

"No they aren’t."

"Princess, they're literally trying to escape through your neck right now."

You glanced down at your shoulders. They were, in fact, up by your ears. You forced them down. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I'm not being sarcastic. I'm genuinely ecstatic that your shoulders are no longer trying to flee your body."

"You're so annoying."

"You're so tense."

"I'm not tense. I'm focused."

"You're so focused that you're forgetting to breathe."

"I'm breathing fine."

"You're holding your breath."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"You just turned purple."

"I did not turn purple."

"You turned a very lovely shade of lavender."

You exhaled. Hard. Right in his face.

He didn't flinch. Just raised an eyebrow.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"No."

"Then take a real breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

"I know how to breathe."

"Then prove it."

You took a breath. In through your nose. Out through your mouth straight onto his face again. He blinked.

"Did you just exhale onto me again?"

"Maybe."

He just sighed, already realising he was losing this battle, and let go of your arms, stepping back. "Okay. Try again. Keep your weight centered. Shoulders down. Breathe. And for the love of God, stop leaning."

"I'm not leaning."

"You're leaning."

"I'm standing perfectly upright."

"You're leaning so far forward you're practically bowing."

You wobbled as you adjusted but managed to catch yourself.

"Look," he said, smiling at you softly. "You're doing it."

"I'm doing it."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed with myself—"

Before you could even finish your gloating, your weight shifted. One moment you were upright, almost steady, almost balanced, almost doing it. The next, the board slipped out from underneath you like the ground had turned to ice. Your arms windmilled. Your center of gravity betrayed you completely. And then your knees hit the asphalt hard: a sharp, jarring impact that sent shockwaves up your thighs before Keonho could even properly react and grab you.

His hands reached for you a second too late, fingers closing on empty air where your arm had been.

You stayed there for a moment, on your hands and knees, breathing hard. The asphalt was rough and warm beneath your palms, little bits of gravel digging into your skin. Your knees throbbed. Your pride throbbed harder.

"Y/N." His voice was closer now. His hand landed on your back, warm and steady. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're not fine. You're on the ground."

"I'm resting."

"You're bleeding."

"I'm bleeding and resting. Multitasking."

"Y/N."

"Keonho."

He crouched down beside you, his face level with yours and his eyes wide, scanning your face, your knees, your hands. "You went down hard."

"I've gone down harder."

"That's not—" He stopped. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not the flex you think it is."

He reached for your arm, gently pulling you up from the ground. His hands were more careful than usual, and you let him guide you to your feet, wincing as your weight settled onto your scraped knees.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I can walk."

"You're limping."

"I'm not limping. I'm just… taking my time."

He shook his head, but he was smiling. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

He led you to the concrete steps outside the gymnasium, and you sat down heavily, stretching your legs out in front of you. The damage was worse than you thought: both knees scraped raw through what used to be your favorite pair of tights, thin lines of blood beading up through the torn fabric.

Keonho sat down next to you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours. He pulled a crumpled gas station napkin from his pocket and held it out to you.

"That's not going to be enough," you said.

"It's all I have."

"Then get more."

"Where am I supposed to get more?"

"I don't know. The bathroom. The nurse's office."

He ignored you and dabbed at your knee with the napkin anyway, gentle and inefficient, the cheap paper sticking to your skin. You hissed through your teeth.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You should be. This is your fault."

"How is this my fault?"

"You're the one who put me on the board."

"You're the one who wanted to learn."

"I wanted to learn from a competent teacher."

"I am competent."

"You let me fall."

"You fell before I could catch you."

"You were literally right in front of me."

"You went down way too fast for me to react."

“Well maybe next time I’ll get an actual competent teacher to teach me how to skate.”

“Oh really? And would that competent teacher still be here tending to your wounds?” He looked at you and something in your chest tightened. You looked away, down at your scraped knees, at his hand still holding the crumpled napkin against your skin.

"You're bleeding too," you said.

He looked down at his own hand. There was a small scrape on his palm, must have happened when he reached for you and caught the asphalt instead.

"That's nothing," he said.

"It's bleeding."

"It's a scratch."

"It's bleeding and you're not even complaining."

"Why would I complain?"

"Because that's what people do when they're hurt. They complain."

"I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're bleeding."

"It's a scratch, Y/N."

"It's a bleeding scratch."

He stared at you. Then he started laughing, bright and surprised, his whole face lighting up.

"What?" you demanded.

"Nothing." He shook his head, still laughing. "You're just—you're sitting there with two knees that look like ground beef, telling me my paper cut is a medical emergency."

"It's not a paper cut. It's a gash."

"It's literally smaller than my fingernail."

"Size isn't everything."

"That's not—" He stopped, his smile wide whilst he rubbed his hand over his face. "You're looking way worse than me."

You wanted to be annoyed at the fact that he was still laughing, his shoulder shaking against yours. You wanted to push him away and tell him this wasn't funny, that your knees were ruined and your tights were ruined and your pride was in shambles on the asphalt.

But instead, you started laughing too.

It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, somewhere you'd forgotten existed. You laughed until your stomach hurt and your scraped knees throbbed and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You laughed because you'd just fallen off a skateboard in front of half the school and Keonho was sitting next to you with a napkin stuck to his palm, his eyes full of light, watching you finally, finally, be yourself.

When the laughter finally faded, you were both breathing hard. His shoulder was still pressed against yours. His hand had somehow found yours, fingers laced together, resting on the concrete step between you.

You eventually leaned your head against his shoulder. Just rested it there, your temple pressing into the worn fabric of his hoodie. He didn't move. Didn't pull away. Just sat there with you in the warm afternoon sun while the rest of the world went on around you.

At some point he turned his head and his lips brushed against your hair so softly you almost missed it, but you felt it. You felt everything.

People walked past, some gawked at the sight of you, others turned and whispered amongst each other, but neither of you seemed to care.

That seemed to become a recurring thing. The stares and the whispers. People still took photos when they thought you weren't looking. The speculation never ended: were you dating? Were you enemies? Were you friends? Were you something in between that no one had a word for?

But you stopped noticing. Or maybe you just stopped caring.

They couldn't understand what was going on between you two. How you'd go from wanting to strangle each other to cuddling up just a second later. How you'd be screaming in each other's faces one moment and then sitting in comfortable silence the next, your head on his shoulder, his hand in yours. How you'd call him every name in the book and then defend him viciously when someone else tried to do the same.

It didn't make sense. Not to them. Not to your friends, who still looked at you like you'd grown a second head every time you walked past the bike racks without stopping to sneer. Not to his friends—the few he had that you had only learnt about recently—who raised their eyebrows every time you appeared and said nothing.

And, to be honest, neither of you understood it either.

But none of that mattered. 

Not when he'd sit there and let you ramble for hours about whatever new person who annoyed you had done. How a girl had worn the same dress as you to a party and actually looked good in it: "She had no right, Keonho. No right. I specifically told her I was wearing the green one with the flowers, and she showed up in the exact same dress like it was nothing." Or how Hana had started talking to her ex again, the one from the football team, the one who'd cheated on her at summer camp two years ago: "I don't understand it. I don't understand her. He literally lied to her face for a whole weekend and she's just going to pretend that didn't happen?"

He never interrupted. Never told you to calm down or change the subject or stop caring so much about things that didn't matter. He just listened with his eyes half-closed, his head tilted back, and his fingers absently tracing patterns on his knee. Sometimes he'd nod. Sometimes he'd make comments like "that's messed up" or "she sounds exhausting" or "you're right to be annoyed." Sometimes he’d just watch you, a look in his eyes that made you feel giddy.

Not when he laid on your bed, still watching you pace back and forth whilst on a call that felt never ending. 

He should have been paying attention and following the conversation, tracking the drama, even offering the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. But his eyelids were heavy, his body was warm, and the sound of your voice, even when it was sharp, annoyed, and mid-takedown, was somehow the most soothing thing he'd ever heard.

”Okay, call me later once she replies.” 

Keonho perked up as he heard you wrapping up the call, his chin lifting from his arm. His eyes tracked you still walking back and forth, back and forth, like you couldn't quite remember how to stop.

"You're gonna wear a hole in that ridiculously expensive rug," he commented, his voice thick with sleep.

You ignored him. Kept pacing. Kept muttering under your breath, something about ‘can't believe she said that’ and ‘who does she think she is’ and ‘wait until I get my hands on her’.

"Y/N."

Nothing.

"Y/N."

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking for like ten minutes. Think quicker.”

“I’d be able to if you shut up.”

He just blinked at you, slow and unbothered. “I’m not the one who’s been pacing around for an hour.”

”It was literally twenty minutes, and last I checked you were asleep.”

”That was before you left me all by myself.” He pouted, his bottom lip jutting out, his eyes wide and faux-tragic, and you scrunched your face in disgust, though you'd never admit it secretly made your heart swell. The stupid, infuriating, adorable pout. The way his hair was all messed up from the pillow. The way the pink blanket was pulled up to his shoulders like a child who didn't want to get out of bed.

He mumbled something you were only just able to catch, his voice thick and sleepy: "Twenty minutes too long."

"I was on the phone."

"You were on the phone without me."

"You were asleep."

"So? You could have woken me up."

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face before stepping forward. He twisted to lay on his side, the pink blanket pooling around his waist, and lifted the blanket up at your approach.

You climbed under the blanket with him, the sheets cool against your legs, the duvet soft beneath your head. His free arm enveloped you immediately, your face pressing into his neck, your nose brushing his collarbone, and your breath warm against his skin.

”You’re so clingy.” You grumbled.

"You love it."

"I hate it."

"You love hating it."

You elbowed him and he didn't even flinch, just tightened his arm around you, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

"I was in the middle of something," you said.

"You were in the middle of pacing."

"I was strategising."

"You were spiraling and I needed to stop it."

His hand found your hair. His fingers threaded through it, slow and steady, the way he knew you liked. His thumb brushed against your scalp, gentle circles that made your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm still thinking about it," you murmured.

"I know."

"I'm going to keep thinking about it."

"I know."

"I'm going to talk about it. A lot. For a long time."

"I know."

"And you're going to listen?"

"I'm going to try. No promises. I'm very tired."

"You're always tired."

"You're always thinking too much."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to fire back something sharp and cutting that would wipe that sleepy smile off his face. But his hand was in your hair and his heartbeat was steady under your ear and the world outside your bedroom door had stopped mattering.

"She's going to reply later," you said. "And when she does—"

"You're going to do nothing."

"I'm going to do something."

"You're going to do nothing," he repeated. "Because it's late. And you're tired. And whatever she said, it'll still be there tomorrow."

"But—"

"Tomorrow," he said. "You can destroy her tomorrow. Right now, you're going to sleep."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I just did."

"And I'm not doing it."

"You're literally in my arms with your eyes closed."

"That doesn't matter." Despite your words, you snuggled into him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressing deeper into the hollow of his throat. He was warm, so, so warm, and his heartbeat was slow and steady beneath your palm, a rhythm your own heart had started to match without your permission.

You felt him press a kiss onto your hair, it seemed to be a thing he did subconsciously now.

"Mhm." He just about managed to say, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. His arms were loosening around you, his grip going slack, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. He was drifting off, you could feel it in the way his breathing had slowed, in the way his hand had stopped moving in your hair, in the way his heartbeat had dropped to a deep, steady thrum.

You lifted your head just enough to look at him as you felt him settle.

His face was soft in the dim light. The sharp lines of his jaw had blurred, his lips were slightly parted, his dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. His hair was a mess across his forehead and he looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the boy who argued with you in parking lots and more like the boy who pressed kisses to your hair when he thought you weren't paying attention.

You should have woken him up. Should have told him to go home, to sleep in his own bed, to stop taking up space in yours.

But you didn't.

Instead, you reached up and brushed the hair off his forehead. Your fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the line of his brow, the curve of his temple, the soft skin just above his cheekbone.

He didn't stir. Didn't wake. Just sighed in his sleep and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist even as he dreamed.

You smiled, just a little, placing a featherlight kiss onto his jaw.

"You're impossible," you whispered, so quietly that not even the fairy lights that hung above your bed could hear.

Then you settled back against his chest, closed your eyes, and let yourself drift.

Tomorrow, you'd argue. Tomorrow, you'd pace and mutter and plot revenge. Tomorrow, you'd be sharp and cutting and impossible in all the ways you knew how to be.

But tonight, you let him have the last word.