mei

“i can’t believe you,” you heave, your perfectly manicured hand stinging where it’d made contact with your boyfriend’s smug face just moments ago. “you – you lying, cheating, whore!”

“ma,” he groans, rubbing at his reddened cheek with one hand and clawing at his desk for support with the other. “let me explain –”

“oh, yeah!?” you yell, shoving past your pleading boyfriend to stomp over to his bedside, where some other girl’s lacy teal bra lay hanging from the table’s edge. you can practically feel him wince when you grab at it, dangling it in front of his face. “this a gift for your mom, then?”

“well –”

“we’re done, asshole,” you spit, glaring down at the pathetic mass you’d called your man and whipping around to fish your phone from your mini purse. with a few sharp clicks on the number pad, you almost get done punching down your homegirl’s number with every intention for her to come pick you up until –

“calm down, woman,” sukuna grumbles defeatedly. those beefy, tattooed arms slowly come to wrap around you from behind as he buries his face in your neck, taking in your sweet perfume. “ya know she ain’t mean shit ‘ta me. not like you do.”

and admittedly, you almost give in. almost. you pause for a moment too long before rolling your eyes and shrugging him off of you.

“don’t care,” you scoff, turning your head and quickly running your fingers through where your bum of a boyfriend had ruined your hair beforehand. “i want your shit out of my house and the spare key back under the plant by tonight.”

“oh, yeah?” he frowns, ruffling his pink locks and crossing his arms in exasperation. you’ve already packed your things and are halfway through stomping out his bedroom door when he says something that makes you stop in your tracks.

“you’ll be back,” sukuna mutters viciously, glaring holes into your back as you practically tremble with rage. “we always come back.”

“. . . go fuck yourself, ‘kuna,” you grumble, sending your pink-haired ex one last glare over your shoulder from where he sits atop his mattress half-naked. “or that bitch. see if it matters to me.”

the last thing you see before shutting the door in his face is the way his facial expressions contort from cocky to indifferent to absolutely outraged as you whizz out of his musty dorm, and hopefully, out of sukuna’s life for good.

“we’re fucking soulmates!” he yells from where you’ve abandoned him, the sound muffled from where his ass sits pathetically glued in place. “we’ll get back together, you’ll see!”

you’d seriously rather die.

.

.

.

not to be dramatic or anything, but by the second week of your very real, very permanent separation from sukuna, you’ve come to realize you’d seriously rather die than be apart for any longer.

and when you tell becky that, all solemn expressions and teary regret, you swear she comes this close to smacking you in the head for all of the campus cafe to see.

“are you fucking —“ your best friend groans, damn near throwing down her plastic fork into her rather pathetic-looking bowl of caesar salad and stopping herself when a few wandering eyes turn to look. “are you serious?”

you let your head fall into your hands and groan. hard.

as if finding some other girl’s trashy bra by your boyfriend’s bedside table when you came by to surprise him for your anniversary wasn’t punishment enough, the two, grueling weeks where you’ve been forced (read: by no one but yourself) into no-contact have been some of the worst in your life. as for ryomen, he simply proceeds as usual, hanging out at the quad with his frat friends and guzzling alcohol at ragers whenever his schedule allows it.

when you close your eyes, you can almost imagine it: him seeing other girls. touching them. fucking them. you swear you could hurl by subjecting your poor, poor imagination to any more of this nonsense.

“ugh, i feel like i need to be sedated, or something,” you mumble, getting up from your pool of misery to rub at your temples. “i feel like shit.”

“uh, hello?” becky scoffs, waving her hands around exasperatedly like you’ve gone mad and all she wants is to resuscitate you. “are you forgetting who you are? you run this school. anybody who matters in this place has to be seen with you.”

“you’re right,” you sniff. “i should move on.”

“thank you,” your friend groans, picking up her trashed cutlery to go on to finish her first meal of the day in peace. “finally, bitch. i was starting to think you were —“

“ — but can i just say one thing!?” you cut in crazedly, and you swear poor, goodhearted becky is halfway through the process of imploding. “we were together for 3 years, becky. that stuff doesn’t just go away!”

“yeah, 3 years on and off,” she says, repeatedly snapping her perfectly manicured fingers in your face like it’ll wake you up from your sukuna-induced trance. it doesn’t, and it takes every little bit of her self-control not to reach over the table and strangle you. “you know what you need?”

“. . . no?”

“you need to catch a dick.”

“beck!” you gasp, and your friend only doubles down in obnoxious laughter when you glare daggers at her for even suggesting such a travesty.

in fact, your stomach practically twists at the thought of being with someone else so soon. your impeccable figure and devilishly good looks aside, you’ve never been with someone — well, other than sukuna himself — during one of your breaks. doing that would just make it feel real, and your little break being real would mean that you and him are over.

forever.

though, weren’t you practically over already?

for two long, grueling weeks, sukuna hasn’t even done so much as text you to see if you were doing okay. in fact, the only times you do see him are when he’s slacking off in your classes or fucking with other women at parties. not that he wasn’t doing that already while you were in a relationship.

but you wonder, albeit a little aimlessly, if he’d said you were soulmates that day in his dorm because he truly believed it — or if he was just sure that you’d come back to him after each and every fuck-up.

like some dog he could call over with the right treats.

as if a lightbulb has gone off in your head, you stand up so fast your chair screeches from behind you. your best friend looks just about at a loss for words when you lean over the cafeteria table and squeeze the life out of her.

“beck, i could kiss you right now!”

“oh, girl . . . please don’t.”

if sukuna thought he could make you surrender with promises of soul-bonding and a little calculated indifference, he was dead wrong.

after all, you’ve figured out the perfect solution to make him come to you instead — and all it would take was a few flirty phone calls and some expert persuasion. hell, you practically have to keep yourself from squealing out loud as you walk out of the cafeteria, heels clicking and your tiny purse swinging at your side.

and so, your plan commences.

you try nanami first, leaning over the counter of the milkshake place near campus that your band of loyal followers very kindly took the liberty of bringing to your attention as his new workplace.

“hi, kento,” you coo, fluttering your false lashes at him like a wicked woman with an even worse agenda. “you work here now? cute!”

between the whirr of the blenders in the background and the aggressively bright and cheery neon lighting from overhead, nanami kento still manages to look ridiculously fine. he looks up from the register with the look of a man who is moments away from walking into traffic, all broad-shoulders and brooding stares that make your ears flush pink.

and in his own, mature and absurdly-sexy way, a philosophy major. if he weren’t wearing that tight white apron and little paper hat atop his head, you’d consider leaning over to give him the time of his life right here and now.

“i . . . uh,” you start, leaning further over the counter. your cleavage damn near fights for its life against the neckline of your baby pink top, and you have to keep yourself from smiling when his eyes flicker downwards, then back to your own. “like your get-up?”

nanami only blinks. “can i help you?”

“sure you can!” you purr sweetly, twirling a lock of your hair around a fresh acrylic nail. “take me out this friday night?”

checkmate, you think, and you’re already halfway through mentally envisioning the outfit you’re going to pick out when nanami ultimately decides to take you out on a romantic –

“no thanks,” nanami grunts, reaching over to grab for the little “employee sanitation guidelines” card from behind the registrar and placing it smack in the middle of the counter for all to see. “i don’t do rebound relationships.”

your jaw practically drops, and it’s almost impressive how fast you go from wanting to fuck this man to wanting to kill him in one sitting.

“excuse me?” you gape, practically fuming from the ears at the thought of even the homely, school-centered nanami kento knowing about your disaster of a breakup with your deadbeat boyfriend.

the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting an amused smile, and annoyingly enough, it kind of suits him. he simply reaches over the counter to pat your steaming head with enough concern to slightly dampen the flames of your fury before turning to pin an order slip by the kitchen window.

“call me when you have no intentions of seeing him anymore.”

you glare at him hard. “offer rewoked.”

“it’s revoked, doll.”

you decide, right then and there, that nanami kento and his beefy biceps and low-hanging glasses aren’t worth all this trouble anyway. hell, you’d even flashed him your best smile! the kind that made professors forgive your patchy attendance and made sukuna fold in 30 seconds flat. did that mean nothing to him?

with a huff and a sharp turn on your heel, you’re on your way to your next destination: the shadiest corner in the parking lots behind the apartment complexes.

you decide you’ll try choso next, partly because he’d been a recurring fling of yours in freshman year and partly because it’s easy to score a meeting with him due to his – well – occupation.

you suppose that’s how you ended up in the passenger seat of his tinted black car under the false pretense of a drug deal, as choso kamo blinks at you slowly from behind the wheel.

“you’re here to buy weed,” he says cautiously, but you’re far too busy sizing up his transportation to pay him much attention.

“uh-huh,” you say mindlessly, running your fingers across the hood of his car. it’s got that fresh new car smell despite being over 3 years old, and you’re frankly pleased that sweet, sensitive choso hasn’t traded his natural hygienic nature to whatever body spray-scented madness your ex has going on in his own ride.

but as much as you’d like to be sitting pretty in the passenger seat of that musty old car again, desperate times call for desperate measures. and choso – dark-eyed, mysterious, and tattooed choso is exactly the type of man that would drive sukuna insane.

and honestly, you get the hype! if anything, that’s exactly why you’d been spread out in the backseat of this very car every monday, wednesday, and friday night in freshman year before you’d inevitably been snatched up by your ex.

“but. . .” choso starts. “you don’t even smoke.”

the senior carefully eyes you from beneath those messy black locks tied up into two space buns, tattooed fingers coming down to tap at the wheel in anticipation. it’s obvious you still make him a little nervous, and you have to keep yourself from smiling when it hits you that you have the campus plug wrapped around your pretty little finger after all this time.

you are so getting it this time.

“hmm, you caught me,” you murmur softly, leaning over the center console until your perfume fills the space between you. “sue a girl for wanting an excuse to see you again, cho.”

choso visibly stiffens in his seat, looking waayyy too flustered for a man in the middle of a deal. “are you flirting with me?”

“i just think,” you continue slyly, dragging a nail across the armrest of one of his leather seats. “that a guy as cute as you should take me out for real this time.”

bingo. you brace yourself for the nastiest makeout session of your life when he subconsciously starts leaning closer, cheeks red and eyes trained solely on your lips before –

“i can’t.”

“what?” you screech, and the deafening sound of your fury makes the boy wince. “why?!”

“because,” he tries to reason with you, burying his tattooed face in his palms and groaning as if turning you down pains him just as much. “your ex buys from me.”

you gasp, blinking at him in utter disbelief as he awkwardly begins to rub at his neck like a teenager fresh out of high school. “he’s like one of my best customers . . . i’m sorry.”

“oh my god, cho,” you sputter, collapsing against the passenger seat as he looks over at you with poorly concealed pity. “you supply my ex with weed?”

“to be fair, he mostly buys edibles.”

“not helping!” you snarl, opening the passenger seat and promptly stepping out into the cold air. any weather, you suppose, would be easier than being subject to more of this humiliation. “ugh, have a good night.”

“wait,” choso says suddenly, and you stop in your tracks just before you can slam the door shut in his face.

“do you still want the weed?”

“no!”

.

.

.

never, in your 20 fabulous years of life, did you ever expect to lose to emotional intelligence and criminal commitment to customer loyalty.

you’re campus royalty, for goodness’ sake! being turned down by men should’ve remained something unheard of in your limited dictionary, and yet here you are, dragging your heels across pavement after one rejection after the other.

had the men on this campus developed an immunity to your charm overnight? or worse yet, had you somehow lost it in those three years you’d been tied to sukuna? you practically shiver thinking about it, furiously fishing your phone from your purse to text becky.

you

THIS CAMPUS IS SICK!!!!!!!!

you

THE DRUG DEALER REJECTED ME

when you pocket your phone and find it in yourself to look up, the sky overhead has long since faded into deep shades of indigo, and you find that not even the cool breeze is enough to cure the hurt of humiliation that still swirls in your chest.

and even worse? you’re late to physics.

you don’t know why a fashion merchandising major would even need to take physics in the first place, but you drag your feet towards your sweaty lecture anyway. you’d caught something about general-ed requirements and a bunch of other bureaucratic crap before you tuned out your incredibly unhelpful academic advisor halfway through his pointless rambling.

you decide not to skip anyway, for fear of your terrible prof and a sinking feeling you’d try for toji fushiguro next. and if you’re being completely honest, the thought of cozying up to the hot, recently single, phys-ed major while he’s got little megumi at home is enough to make the hairs on your neck stand up a second time.

a step-child is not a commitment you’re ready to make — fake girlfriend or otherwise.

still, that’s not to say you don’t believe whoever invented evening lectures deserves jail time.

by the time you push open the heavy doors to your lecture hall, you’re already 30 minutes late, wildly irritated, and running completely out of spite.

“nice of you to join us, l/n,” your professor huffs, sending you a glare over his shoulder as a few students deviate attention from their notes to snicker quietly.

“sorry, mister!” you chirp sweetly, flashing him your prettiest smile and straightening up to toss your hair and scan the hall for an available seat.

unfortunately for you, physics majors are horrifyingly punctual. they fill up every nook and cranny of the place, and when your eyes finally land on one, singular seat by the very back row, you have to bite your tongue to suppress a groan. of fucking course.

you begin the humiliating trek to the back anyway, looking around for any halfway-decent men to distract yourself with in the meantime. and to nobody’s luck, they get worse and worse the deeper into the room you get.

too lanky. too sweaty. one briefly catches your eye, and you briefly consider hitting him up after class before he sneezes directly into his hand, and you think mm, better not. your gaze continually sweeps the nerds that fill the room before they finally land on the occupant of the seat next to your empty one.

you pause, blinking hard like it’ll make the sight before you any less real.

how tall is this guy? you frown, shuffling into your seat and hardly even bothering to pull out a notebook as you rake over him from head to toe. he’s 190cm, at the very least.

and that hair. is it natural? dyed? where have you seen this guy before? you can barely keep from pumping your fist when you realize he’s too busy to notice you oggling, scribbling equations across a notebook already overflowing with messy handwriting and post-it notes.

heck, you even begin to think he might be halfway decent if it weren’t for the suffocating scent of nerd and those thick-framed glasses sitting atop his nose before you pinch yourself for even having the thought in the first place. it makes you shake your head violently, not at all minding if you look like a madwoman.

suddenly feeling faint, you obnoxiously rustle through your purse for a stick of gum without minding the stares you receive for noisily going through your everyday items like a raccoon. whatever. you’d find the perfect scapegoat to make sukuna come crawling back to you in the span of a little less than a week, and your sleazy ex could come kiss your big, hairy –

“l/n and gojo satoru,” your professor’s voice cuts through the room, and your head snaps up the moment your name is called. you look around to see if anyone else had caught what the old croak had been saying prior, but your nerdy classmates all seem to have their heads buried in their notes.

“hey,” you whisper, lightly nudging your seatmate’s ankle with a polished heel. “what’d the old guy say?”

your seatmate finally stops writing. and when he looks up at you from beneath those long, white lashes, you’d almost forgotten what you were trying to ask him in the first place. when he sighs and sets his pencil down, you’re far too entranced by the magnificent blue that sits behind his eyes to care.

they’re electric. sharp. like somebody had stolen them out of an anime and magicked them into the body of an exhausted physics major.

“the professor,” he says slowly, like he’s speaking to someone who’s mildly concussed. “was assigning partners for the paper due tomorrow?”

and oh, he knows you. every living soul on campus knows your name. 

even if gojo had somehow managed to successfully evade the endless stream of gossip that flows throughout your university, he’d still recognize you on sight. it’d be impossible not to. pretty girls with perfect hair and a talent for commanding a room are usually hard to miss.

unfortunately, your reputation doesn’t really stop there.

he’s heard more stories than he can count about your infamous relationship with ryomen sukuna. the breakups. the makeups. the screaming matches outside the frat house and the dramatic reconciliations that always seem to occur when everybody has begun to accept that you’re over for good.

and to be frank, he’s never understood it. not your popularity, and definitely not your very public relationship. not when someone who’s clearly capable of having whoever she pleases chooses the guy who treats commitment like a summer job.

unfortunately, none of that is going to change the fact that he’s been forced into writing a physics paper with you. 

“tomorrow?!” you yelp, immediately bowing your head to apologize when multiple heads come to turn to the source of the noise. “. . . and who’s gojo?”

“that would be me.”

oh.

so that’s where you’d seen him before.

you lean back in your chair to assess him with squinted eyes, rubbing your chin in a manner that makes your seatmate wonder if he’s somehow landed in a bad detective movie. “you related to toru from sigma chi, or do you just have a secret double life?”

if the way gojo’s lips purse into a thin line is anything to go by, your joke didn’t exactly land.

“he’s my twin,” he explains frankly. and when he impatiently drums his fingers on the table like he’s got somewhere more important to be, you’re finally smacked in the face with what should have been apparent before:

he doesn’t like you very much.

but can you blame him, really, when you’d just been ruthlessly assessing the value of all his male classmates five minutes prior? if your senses are anything to go by, this gojo person is a lot more perceptive than his meathead brother.

not that you could care less about a grumpy nerd and his freaky sense of perception. you came here with one mission, and one mission only – to get your attendance signed for this stupid lecture. paper be damned; you’ll get to that when you manage to find the perfect temporary boyfriend whose only purpose is to get you back with your real boyfriend.

unfortunately, your professor seems determined to ruin your day even further.

“before anyone leaves,” he pipes up as students begin packing their things. “work must be split evenly between two partners. pairs who do not follow the fifty-fifty contribution rule will automatically be given failing marks.”

immediately, you find yourself sitting straighter.

“peer reviews will also be considered.” your professor finishes. students begin to filter out of the lecture hall as quickly as they came, and you only break out of your shock-induced trance when gojo begins to stir beside you.

next to you, gojo simply gathers his notes into a clear folder as you stare at him in utter disbelief. because seriously, who even uses folders?

“so,” you clear your throat, refusing to falter when he looks over at you with those horrifyingly pretty eyes. you flash him the most genuine smile you can muster, but the man is unmoved. “you won’t let me down during that peer review, won’t you?”

gojo narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, and it almost makes you regret asking.

“as long as you do exactly fifty percent of it, sure.”

“listen – i’ve kinda got this thing tonight.” you rub your neck, but the disgustingly handsome freak your professor did you the disservice of pairing you with is as clueless as ever.

“so do i,” he shrugs, neatly placing the rest of his things into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

you frown. “doing what?”

“homework.”

your face immediately falls, but you somehow manage to conceal the soul-crushing urge to laugh when he looks at you like he’s confused you had a reaction to his very real, very pressing plans he needs to get to. tonight.

looks like you have no other choice.

“fine, but i’m driving.” you pinch your nose bridge with one hand and shovel your minimal belongings into your purse with the other. “where do we work on this thing?”

“the library?”

“uh, ew.”

“a cafe?”

“too many people.”

“the student center, then?”

“double ew,” you cross your arms, glaring up at your exasperated new partner as he glowers right back at you with the heat of a thousand suns.

the white-haired man groans, rubbing at his cheek with one hand. “what about your apartment?”

the suggestion leaves his mouth casually enough, but it’s almost like this gojo person has struck you in the face from the way your heart drops to your stomach. absolutely not. not when sukuna still hasn’t hauled his things out of your apartment after you told him to do it weeks ago.

he could barge in at any moment, and you’d seriously rather not take the time out of your day explaining to him why there’s a geek sitting pretty in your apartment.

you look away, arms still crossed. and you so hate the way gojo is sizing you up right now, trying to figure out why exactly your face dropped. “can’t. i’ve got rats.”

“uh-huh,” he squints, and you’re both completely oblivious of the way the lecture hall has completely fizzled out of people aside from the two of you right now. “where do you live again?”

“. . . the luxury apartments on oak street?”

when your partner blinks at you, you blurt out the first thing on the tip of your tongue to save you from your own stupid lie. “they’re very aggressive rats. big and mean.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a ghost of a smile for the first time tonight, just enough to annoy you enough to glare down at your feet in the hopes he won’t call out our lame fib.

“right, my place then.”

you look up, and gojo mentally notes that that’s the fastest he’s ever seen you move – in class and on campus. from the way you immediately recoil, he guesses you’re not very fond of that suggestion either.

he sighs, already halfway through pitching his next venue idea to you when you cut him off with an urgency that leaves even him uneasy.

“alright,” you say quietly, and the man has to refrain from rubbing his ears to see if he’d just heard you correctly.

“wha- are you serious?”

“what, do you not want to do it in your apartment?” you look up to glare at him through your lashes, and the tips of his ears burn red from your poor choice of wording. satoru has to give himself a few seconds to recalibrate before he even thinks about responding.

did you really have to say it like that?

“it’s just . . . you didn’t like any of the other places i said.”

you blink, and for the first time since you’ve been granted the displeasure of this man’s company, you turn to really look at him.

not glance, look. and somehow, the image of gojo satoru is a little less intimidating up close.

sure, he’s just about as tall as a doorframe, but without the harsh lights of the lecture hall turning him into some kind of academic cryptid, the shadows that grace his features now just make him look like a tired college student. his white hair sticks out in every direction imaginable, and his navy sweater hangs three sizes too loose over his body like he hadn’t even bothered to check the tag before he paid for it.

plus, his glasses are crooked. not very noticeably so, but they hang dangerously low on his nose. so much so, that they force him to push them back up every few minutes.

he’s nothing like toru, who dresses like he’s god’s gift to women. and honestly? it’s kind of pathetic. a little cute, even, and you immediately shudder at the thought.

“what now?” satoru frowns, and it’s only then that you realize you’ve been staring.

“nothing,” you blurt out, and gojo starts to look a little suspicious.

the truth is, you feel a little silly now.

for every suggestion he made, you shot it down with one harsh blow after another. the library was too dingy. the café was too crowded. the student center was. . . well, student center-y.

and through all of it, this guy stood there like a man who was just trying to finish his damn paper — and make his partner feel a little more comfortable throughout the process.

gross, you think self-awareness might be your least favorite motion.

“i just think your apartment’s fine,” you mutter, unable to meet his eyes all of a sudden. gojo blinks once, then twice, like he’s waiting for the punchline for a bad joke.

it never comes.

“alright,” he says, honestly a little stunned you’d given in so easily. and to his apartment, of all places. did someone hit you in the head prior to this? your differences aside, he sure hopes not.

and that’s it. no sly smiles, no teasing, and definitely no celebrating victories. your white-haired partner simply exists in the same space, clearly relieved you stopped trying to put up a fight.

you don’t know why that irritates you so, but you haul ass and drag your purse over your shoulder anyway. after all, you have a paper to finish.

outside, campus has fallen into its usual evening rhythm.

the streetlamps illuminate the darkness, casting golden splotches of light onto the streets and across the sidewalks. the students have lessened by this time, traveling between buildings in little groups as they laugh and carry on with their takeout containers.

obnoxious music blares through one of the boy’s dorm windows, and off in the distance, you spy a couple talking and laughing on a bench.

you don’t know why your stomach twists at the sight.

you shove your hands into your pocket, and beside you, satoru is enveloped in a strange kind of silence that neither of you really know how to get past. like neither of you really expected to spend your evening together.

when you reach your vehicle that you’d conveniently parked in the farthest corner of your building, your new nerd friend suddenly slows next to you.

“hey, what’s —“

“shoko?” he blinks, and you stop in your tracks.

his gaze is trained onto something like it’s grabbed him and refuses to let go, and when you follow his eyes, you begin to understand why.

only 5 feet away, shoko ieiri is stepping off her motorbike beneath one of the flickering street lamps. she’s dressed in black scrubs and an oversized jacket, dark circles gracing her features in a way that makes the woman even prettier, somehow.

which is unfair, really.

“satoru,” she calls out, tucking her bike helmet under her arm and flashing you two a lazy smile. “is that you?”

and oh, you know this girl. everyone does. shoko ieiri is only 20 and has somehow managed to become a full-time medical student and part-time campus legend.

you’ve heard enough stories about this lady to write her a biography, for goodness’ sake. rumor has it is that she scored ninety-seventh percentile on the mcat while absurdly hungover.

she’s brilliant, beautiful, and weirdly enough —

friends with gojo satoru.

the same kid who’s wearing a sweater that could house a family of four and whose glasses have almost slipped right off his nose for the tenth time tonight. and when you spot his ears go red from the corner of your eye, you have to keep yourself from grinning.

interesting.

“oh? who’s your friend?” she asks kindly, a smile slowly creeping onto her face when she rakes her eyes over the way you fall into step beside one another.

the reaction is immediate.

“we’re not —“

“no.” you huff, the two of you speaking at the same time. shoko raises an amused brow, and you only smile at her sweetly. gojo on the other hand, looks like he’s about to combust.

“we’re partners,” you say simply, shifting your weight from one foot to another in an attempt to fend off the cold.

“. . . for physics,” the white-haired boy adds, but to no avail. shoko’s infuriatingly beautiful smile only grows wider and more suspicious of you two by the second, and your eyes continue to flick between the two of them like you’ve been personally tasked to assess the situation.

because if you know anything at all — it’s love.

and from the way gojo satoru fiddles with his fingers and looks down at his feet, he’s got it pretty damn bad.

oh, you could bark out a laugh right here and now.

“well, good luck with that,” she grins, and before gojo can stop her to say she’s got it all wrong, she’s off like a woman on a mission. “i’ll get going now. these readings won’t complete themselves.”

“uh, bye — !”

“bye honey,” you chime in after your rather pathetic excuse of an assignment partner, and she shoots you a salute you before she’s off, probably in the direction of the library.

you bet gojo is pretty damn grateful you insisted on his apartment right about now.

the moment shoko turns the corner and is completely out of sight, you turn around to look at him accusingly.

“you have the hots for shoko ieiri.”

“no i don’t,” he retorts, wincing when you bark out a mean laugh and fiddle with your keys to unlock your car. the moment the vehicle clicks and the headlights whirr to life, he’s immediately sliding into the passenger seat like it’ll save him from any more of your humiliation.

it doesn’t.

“i dunno,” you tease, opening up the door to the driver’s seat and sliding inside. “that response was pretty fuckin’ quick.”

“i don’t have ‘the hots’ for her,” gojo starts. he grabs at his seatbelt, pressing down until he hears a click before he’s fiddling with his fingers again. “i have a completely normal amount of respectable feelings for her.”

you double down in laughter, pulling out of the parking lot as your newfound friend seethes in the seat beside you. “she is so out of your league, nerd.”

“yeah, yeah,” he mutters, and you hate yourself for wanting to coo at the pout you can hear in his voice.

maybe your breakup with sukuna really had messed you up, because you’re not quite sure where in between your rocky relationship with a frat boy your brain decided to be attracted to pathetic, loser men.

“if it makes you feel better, i think she might be into you too.” you glance over your shoulder to smile at him, and for the first time tonight, it’s completely genuine.

“. . . you think so?”

“i know this stuff,” you say as a matter-of-factly, and gojo turns to look at you with an indescribable twinkle in his eyes that he quite obviously tries very hard to hide. “trust me.”

you glance to the side, and the look on his face is enough to make your stomach churn. because for one, glorious second, satoru forgets to be suspicious of you.

he doesn’t glare, or squint, or retort — he only looks hopeful. in that disgustingly sincere, gojo satoru way. so much so, that you nearly regret opening your mouth lest you give him false hope.

which is unusual, because you’ve known this man for exactly two hours and thirty five minutes, and spent ninety percent of that time warring over this stupid paper your professor wants on his desk by tomorrow morning.

you snap your eyes back onto the road. focus.

the conversation fizzles out naturally after that, and the radio begins to buzz louder than your words once did. streetlights flash past your tinted windows in consistent intervals, and somewhere along the way, gojo stops fiddling with his fingers and sinks deeper into his seat.

neither of you say anything for a long time. and somehow, you don’t seem to mind it.

maybe because you’re tired. or maybe — maybe because you’re not quite used to men that don’t demand everything from you at any given moment.

satoru simply exists beside you, like any other stranger at university would. deep down, you find that you quite like that.

you sneak a glance sideways, and gojo is staring out the window. and before you can even begin to stop yourself, your mouth is running.

“sorry for being a dick earlier,” you murmur, shrinking under the weight of his gaze when he shifts in his seat to look at you.

“what for?” he blinks, and your heart twinges in your chest. gojo might be a little clueless, but that doesn’t mean he’s not deserving of a proper apology. for fear of chickening out under the weight of your pride, you will yourself to speak.

“you know, our choice of venue?” you wince, clearly a little embarrassed by the way you’d been acting. satoru’s mouth forms into an o as a way of telling you he understands.

“i’ve been dealing with some things,” you continue, letting out a deep exhale you were unaware you’d been holding in. “but i shouldn’t have let it out on you the way i did. i’m sorry.”

for one, agonizing moment, gojo doesn’t answer.

outside, the city hums with a fervor you can only really get in the heart of a college town. tires roll on the asphalt outside, distant music blares from dorm windows, and students wander like they haven’t got responsibilities they need to tend to at sunrise.

then, he shrugs. “it’s okay.”

your eyes narrow when you sneak another glance at him. his attention has drifted back over to the window, but there’s something about his breathing and the way his shoulders relax that tells you there’s something softer about him now. less guarded.

“no it’s not, that’s literally the worst response to an apology i’ve ever heard.”

“what?” he frowns, looking over to where you irritably tap your fingers against the leather wheel. “what was i supposed to say?”

“i dunno,” you groan, gripping the steering wheel tighter in an attempt to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. “something that makes me feel a little less guilty?”

gojo snorts. “you feel guilty?”

you sigh, and you think you would’ve hid your head in your hands by now if they weren’t already occupied. “don’t make it weird.”

“i’m not,” he says quickly, and you glance over. “i’m just surprised.”

“why’s that?” you hum, and the sound of the car motor fills the brief silence that follows. in his seat, satoru is staring at the passing streetlights like they’ve miraculously become more interesting than your conversation.

“i thought people like you didn’t apologize,” he says absentmindedly.

“people like me?” “you know, popular people.”

you’re unable to find it in you to hold back a genuine fit of laughter, and the sound vibrates in the stunned man’s ears like a blessing. not that he’d ever admit that.

“that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard you say,” you wheeze, one hand coming up to wipe a stray tear from your eye before returning to the wheel.

gojo, on the other hand, looks deeply offended. “i don’t say dumb things. i thought you were apologizing?”

“i was, then you decided to go say something dumb.” you roll your eyes through a fit of giggles, and in his seat, you swear you catch a glimpse of your partner trying to conceal the ghost of a smile.

“so much for being sorry.”

.

.

.

the second satoru opens the door to his apartment complex, you come to realize two things:

the first being that if the freakish orderliness of his living space is anything to go by, he most definitely lives alone.

the second, and most glaring, for reasons that are currently attacking your eyeline, is that he’s an even bigger nerd than you had ever imagined.

“are you kidding me?” you frown, running your fingers along the edges of his bookshelves where satoru’s numerous lego sets, a curated collection of astronomy magazines, and dusty academic journals reside.

“what?” he frowns. he shuffles on his feet from behind you, clearly a little nervous you’ve decided to size up his apartment – not that you care. it’s just . . .

was gojo satoru always this big of a geek?

by the tv, a framed photograph from a science competition you don’t bother looking close enough to identify gleams like a trophy. on the other end of the table, his rubik’s cube collection is stacked on top of one another from the largest cube to the smallest in a colorful array.

when you picture gojo hunched over, legs crossed on the fluffy carpet, tinkering with one of these things to see how fast he can solve it, you almost crack a smile.

almost.

“nothing, i just didn’t know you were such a damn nerd.”

clearly unimpressed, your white-haired partner rolls his eyes but shuffles around the place to find seat cushions for the two of you anyway.

when he pulls two cushions out from god knows where and lays them out onto the carpet, he plops down and looks up at you expectantly.

“sit.” he hums, and when you double back on satoru to call him a, quote, bossy nerd, your bickering comes alive once more.

and surprisingly enough, work gets done.

not a lot of work, but just around the right amount to get this bullcrap done by sunrise. you think it might be because the state of satoru’s apartment far surpasses your own – all warm lighting and vacuumed hardwood as opposed to your own dingy place, strewn with your ex’s forgotten sweaters and littered with shoes you’d forgotten to put back in the cubby.

his place feels comfortable. lived in. like the home of somebody who’s got their shit together and not some heartbroken college girl who’s been broken up with by the same guy for the nth time.

that, or satoru gojo is just a damn good project partner. every time you get stuck on a problem, he’s right next to you and explaining it in a way that doesn’t make you feel stupid. when he goes off on one of his overcomplicated tangents, you reel him back in before he disappears into the nerd dimension.

not that he wasn’t already swimming in it before.

the point is, you’re annoyingly functional, and time seems to go by faster the more you and satoru manage to get done. at one point in the night, you stretch your shoulders and yawn with a volume that should’ve been loud enough to make him look.

it doesn’t.

your eyes drift over to where he’s typing on his laptop instead, and satoru is exactly the same as usual: annoyingly focused, hopelessly nerdy, and completely oblivious to your staring.

you nudge him with your foot. “hey.”

“hmm?” he replies absentmindedly, typing away as you’re graciously giving him your full attention.

you nudge him again, harder this time, and it’s enough to make him stop working on the paper and glare up at you.

“what?” he says, and it’s accompanied by a sigh so loud that you have to keep yourself from laughing.

“say,” you start, leaning back on your elbows and pretending not to notice when his eyes flicker to your nearly-exposed chest, then back to you. “aren’t you gonna do something about your little crush?”

you’re not quite sure what the beautiful, enigmatic shoko ieiri has done to this boy, but the effect on him is almost immediate. his fingers stop mid-way through typing a sentence, and he stares at his screen like it’ll give him the answer if he looks hard enough.

then, he types over the silence as if you’d never said anything at all. nothing of importance, at least.

“nothing,” satoru answers, eyes flickering left and right on his laptop screen significantly faster than they were before. “she’s been a friend of mine since high school. these things pass.”

you scoff. “i’ve known sukuna since high school, and everyone knows how that ended.”

“you’re comparing a hallway crush to your toxic situation with your boyfriend,” he quips, and the bastard doesn’t even look up as you fume at the mention of sukuna.

“ex-boyfriend,” you correct him immediately. gojo shrugs.

“tomato, tom-ah-to.”

ignoring another one of his smart ass responses that you, quite frankly, don’t even understand, you push at him harder. “whatever, loser, you and i both know that’s not an excuse.”

this time, it’s satoru’s turn to groan exasperatedly, leaning back against the couch and staring at the ceiling like it holds all the secrets of the world. one beat passes, then another, and you almost gear yourself up to make another stretch and get back to work when he speaks again.

“. . . she’s experienced. i’m not.”

you raise your brows. “experienced?”

the rather pathetic physics major raises his head to glower right at you, blinking up at him, and genuinely confused.

“you know what i mean,” he sighs, running a hand down his face when you stare at him from across the floor table like he’s gone mad.

“no,” you say, awkwardly rubbing at your neck. “i don’t.”

a groan slips past his lips as he throws his head back against the couch cushions, the movement ruffling up his already messed-up hair. for one glorious second, he looks less like the put-together mystery from your physics lecture and more like a man who’s been pushed to the limit by one annoying classmate.

unfortunately for him, you’re having the time of your life.

the apartment falls silent for a moment, and suddenly, everything begins to click into place. the awkwardness. the red ears. the lack of confidence despite looking like, well, that.

“gojo,” you start, and he knows he’s been busted when a wild grin blooms across your face. “are you a virgin?”

one beat passes, then another, and satoru blinks up at you like it’s his turn to be deeply confused.

“. . . is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

you stare at him for half a second before you break.

and honestly, your laugh comes out so suddenly that it startles even you, who’s now begun to double down in her laughter and clutch at the carpets for dear life. across from you, gojo’s face immediately twists into something between annoyance and confusion as he watches you fold in on yourself.

“no,” you wheeze, clutching your stomach with one hand and wiping a tear from your eyes with another. “it’s not a bad thing.”

you’re not trying to be mean, because if anything, you’re impressed. the man is six-foot something of sweet cologne and a pretty damn good allowance by the looks of this apartment, not to mention his unfair genetics. if you had noticed satoru gojo sooner, you would’ve assumed girls were throwing themselves at his feet.

“it’s just . . . you look like that, and you’re telling me you haven’t done anything in twenty years?”

“twenty-one years,” he corrects immediately, but stops himself from pursuing that argument any further when he realizes he’s not exactly helping his own case. “and not everybody’s life revolves around dating.”

“you’re talking like you haven’t been in love with her for like, five years.”

“who said anything about love?” he murmurs defeatedly, tearing his eyes off of you when you only laugh harder.

you narrowly miss the cushion he tosses at you, and eventually, the conversation eventually dies the death it deserves. after a few final edits to your paper, a 30-minute attempt to get satoru’s dusty old printer to spit out said project, and another heated argument, you finally convince him not to walk you to your car.

“just go to sleep,” you blink, cocking your head as he stubbornly stays put by the door to his place, arms crossed and eyes winking off to sleep.“we’ve been up all night.”

the man is exhausted, and you can see it in the way his shoulders drop and the shadows that pool beneath his pretty eyes. he stands by the door with a fiery determination like he’s not half asleep as you know it, and you nearly scoff in his face.

“it’s dark,” he murmurs, head lolling when he yawns for the nth time in the past 5 minutes. “just let me walk you.”

“we’re in the safest part of campus,” you roll your eyes, shoving satoru back inside his apartment, where there’s no more space to argue with you. “just make sure that paper is on the old man’s desk by ten. g’night!”

“wait –”

with that, you’ve slammed the door in his face and his absurdly comfortable apartment forever, you hope.

and as your heels click on the pavement outside his apartment complex, you’re still smiling when you try to fish your keys from your purse. maybe it’s the relief of finally finishing the damn paper, or maybe it’s because you finally spent the last few hours thinking about something other than sukuna.

whatever it is, you carry it with you down the road to your beetle. because for whatever reason, your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. not completely healed, not even close. just lighter, like your prick of an ex-boyfriend has finally begun to flush from your system.

that is, until you glance up and regret ever leaving the damn apartment.

because less than five feet away and conveniently parked under a flickering streetlight is the devil himself: ryomen sukuna, leaning back against his black suv as you physically recoil at the sight of him. and to make matters worse, he spots you immediately, red eyes narrowing at you like he’s seeing double.

he isn’t, and it takes all of your self-control not to shrivel up under his red, hot stare.

for a moment, neither of you moves. the parking lot sits suspended in time, and you blink at each other underneath the orange glow of the streetlights and the distant sounds of nightlife. like you’re mutually suspicious.

unfortunately, life continues, and so does your ex.

“doll?” he frowns, and you’d gag at the nickname if it didn’t mean looking like a fool in front of this bastard. “what’re you doing here?”

your stomach drops, and you cross your arms over your chest in a poor attempt to conceal your slow-rising panic.

say something. anything.

“i was visiting my cousin,” you say quickly, and you keep yourself from wincing when his slit brows furrow in confusion. as far as sukuna’s knowledge and the truth go, you don’t have any cousins.

“your cousin . . . that i’ve never heard about?”

“well, you never asked.” you huff, glaring into the distance where you’re half-sure you parked your car. maybe if you started running now, you could . . . wait.

“i could ask you the same thing,” you continue flatly, and for the first time since spotting you, sukuna lets his gaze drift away from you and towards the apartment complex behind you.

slowly, downright cruelly, the pieces begin to fall into place.

the moving boxes. the suv. the fact that he’s standing under a streetlight at this ungodly hour.

“don’t tell me . . .” you gasp, taking a few steps back in horror when a grin blooms across your ex-boyfriend’s smug face. “your bum ass lives here now?”

this can’t be happening.

“bingo, pretty. so are you gonna tell me why you’re here at this hour or —”

“WAIT!” a shout tears through the emptiness of the parking lot, and both of your heads snap towards the apartment entrance.

a few feet away, the doors to the building blow open so fast they practically fly off the hinges. suddenly, poor, oblivious satoru gojo is jogging through the lot with your keys in hand and the urgency of a man trying to stop a national emergency.

“you forgot your keys in my apartment!” he calls out, waving them above his head like a madman. sukuna freezes. gojo keeps going.

“you would’ve been stuck out here all night. god, i leave you alone for five minutes and you – “

the words die in his mouth when he spots sukuna practically fuming from next to you, and satoru’s frantically waving hand immediately drops to his side, keys dangling along with the wind.

across from you, sukuna’s face contorts into multiple stages of horror in milliseconds, and you’re completely aware of how this looks. you, leaving this geek’s apartment after spending hours alone in the middle of the night.

you can practically see the image forming in his head, and something forms in his expression that 3 years of on-and-off makes pretty hard to miss: pure, unadulterated jealousy.

his eyes move from you, to satoru, to the keys in his hand, then the apartment complexes behind him, before a realization crashes into you with the force of a bullet train:

the perfect fake-boyfriend has been existing right under your nose for all this time, in the form of nerdy satoru gojo and his complete and utter inability to realize the kind of damage he causes.

“you forgot these,” satoru says weakly, like that’ll fix this utter mess.

right next to you, sukuna finds his voice again.

“what the fuck?”

taglist: @deputy-videogamer @vigilantlytemporalgauntlet @icdszn @888dez @babydollmee

“i can’t believe you,” you heave, your perfectly manicured hand stinging where it’d made contact with your boyfriend’s smug face just moments ago. “you – you lying, cheating, whore!”

“ma,” he groans, rubbing at his reddened cheek with one hand and clawing at his desk for support with the other. “let me explain –”

“oh, yeah!?” you yell, shoving past your pleading boyfriend to stomp over to his bedside, where some other girl’s lacy teal bra lay hanging from the table’s edge. you can practically feel him wince when you grab at it, dangling it in front of his face. “this a gift for your mom, then?”

“well –”

“we’re done, asshole,” you spit, glaring down at the pathetic mass you’d called your man and whipping around to fish your phone from your mini purse. with a few sharp clicks on the number pad, you almost get done punching down your homegirl’s number with every intention for her to come pick you up until –

“calm down, woman,” sukuna grumbles defeatedly. those beefy, tattooed arms slowly come to wrap around you from behind as he buries his face in your neck, taking in your sweet perfume. “ya know she ain’t mean shit ‘ta me. not like you do.”

and admittedly, you almost give in. almost. you pause for a moment too long before rolling your eyes and shrugging him off of you.

“don’t care,” you scoff, turning your head and quickly running your fingers through where your bum of a boyfriend had ruined your hair beforehand. “i want your shit out of my house and the spare key back under the plant by tonight.”

“oh, yeah?” he frowns, ruffling his pink locks and crossing his arms in exasperation. you’ve already packed your things and are halfway through stomping out his bedroom door when he says something that makes you stop in your tracks.

“you’ll be back,” sukuna mutters viciously, glaring holes into your back as you practically tremble with rage. “we always come back.”

“. . . go fuck yourself, ‘kuna,” you grumble, sending your pink-haired ex one last glare over your shoulder from where he sits atop his mattress half-naked. “or that bitch. see if it matters to me.”

the last thing you see before shutting the door in his face is the way his facial expressions contort from cocky to indifferent to absolutely outraged as you whizz out of his musty dorm, and hopefully, out of sukuna’s life for good.

“we’re fucking soulmates!” he yells from where you’ve abandoned him, the sound muffled from where his ass sits pathetically glued in place. “we’ll get back together, you’ll see!”

you’d seriously rather die.

.

.

.

not to be dramatic or anything, but by the second week of your very real, very permanent separation from sukuna, you’ve come to realize you’d seriously rather die than be apart for any longer.

and when you tell becky that, all solemn expressions and teary regret, you swear she comes this close to smacking you in the head for all of the campus cafe to see.

“are you fucking —“ your best friend groans, damn near throwing down her plastic fork into her rather pathetic-looking bowl of caesar salad and stopping herself when a few wandering eyes turn to look. “are you serious?”

you let your head fall into your hands and groan. hard.

as if finding some other girl’s trashy bra by your boyfriend’s bedside table when you came by to surprise him for your anniversary wasn’t punishment enough, the two, grueling weeks where you’ve been forced (read: by no one but yourself) into no-contact have been some of the worst in your life. as for ryomen, he simply proceeds as usual, hanging out at the quad with his frat friends and guzzling alcohol at ragers whenever his schedule allows it.

when you close your eyes, you can almost imagine it: him seeing other girls. touching them. fucking them. you swear you could hurl by subjecting your poor, poor imagination to any more of this nonsense.

“ugh, i feel like i need to be sedated, or something,” you mumble, getting up from your pool of misery to rub at your temples. “i feel like shit.”

“uh, hello?” becky scoffs, waving her hands around exasperatedly like you’ve gone mad and all she wants is to resuscitate you. “are you forgetting who you are? you run this school. anybody who matters in this place has to be seen with you.”

“you’re right,” you sniff. “i should move on.”

“thank you,” your friend groans, picking up her trashed cutlery to go on to finish her first meal of the day in peace. “finally, bitch. i was starting to think you were —“

“ — but can i just say one thing!?” you cut in crazedly, and you swear poor, goodhearted becky is halfway through the process of imploding. “we were together for 3 years, becky. that stuff doesn’t just go away!”

“yeah, 3 years on and off,” she says, repeatedly snapping her perfectly manicured fingers in your face like it’ll wake you up from your sukuna-induced trance. it doesn’t, and it takes every little bit of her self-control not to reach over the table and strangle you. “you know what you need?”

“. . . no?”

“you need to catch a dick.”

“beck!” you gasp, and your friend only doubles down in obnoxious laughter when you glare daggers at her for even suggesting such a travesty.

in fact, your stomach practically twists at the thought of being with someone else so soon. your impeccable figure and devilishly good looks aside, you’ve never been with someone — well, other than sukuna himself — during one of your breaks. doing that would just make it feel real, and your little break being real would mean that you and him are over.

forever.

though, weren’t you practically over already?

for two long, grueling weeks, sukuna hasn’t even done so much as text you to see if you were doing okay. in fact, the only times you do see him are when he’s slacking off in your classes or fucking with other women at parties. not that he wasn’t doing that already while you were in a relationship.

but you wonder, albeit a little aimlessly, if he’d said you were soulmates that day in his dorm because he truly believed it — or if he was just sure that you’d come back to him after each and every fuck-up.

like some dog he could call over with the right treats.

as if a lightbulb has gone off in your head, you stand up so fast your chair screeches from behind you. your best friend looks just about at a loss for words when you lean over the cafeteria table and squeeze the life out of her.

“beck, i could kiss you right now!”

“oh, girl . . . please don’t.”

if sukuna thought he could make you surrender with promises of soul-bonding and a little calculated indifference, he was dead wrong.

after all, you’ve figured out the perfect solution to make him come to you instead — and all it would take was a few flirty phone calls and some expert persuasion. hell, you practically have to keep yourself from squealing out loud as you walk out of the cafeteria, heels clicking and your tiny purse swinging at your side.

and so, your plan commences.

you try nanami first, leaning over the counter of the milkshake place near campus that your band of loyal followers very kindly took the liberty of bringing to your attention as his new workplace.

“hi, kento,” you coo, fluttering your false lashes at him like a wicked woman with an even worse agenda. “you work here now? cute!”

between the whirr of the blenders in the background and the aggressively bright and cheery neon lighting from overhead, nanami kento still manages to look ridiculously fine. he looks up from the register with the look of a man who is moments away from walking into traffic, all broad-shoulders and brooding stares that make your ears flush pink.

and in his own, mature and absurdly-sexy way, a philosophy major. if he weren’t wearing that tight white apron and little paper hat atop his head, you’d consider leaning over to give him the time of his life right here and now.

“i . . . uh,” you start, leaning further over the counter. your cleavage damn near fights for its life against the neckline of your baby pink top, and you have to keep yourself from smiling when his eyes flicker downwards, then back to your own. “like your get-up?”

nanami only blinks. “can i help you?”

“sure you can!” you purr sweetly, twirling a lock of your hair around a fresh acrylic nail. “take me out this friday night?”

checkmate, you think, and you’re already halfway through mentally envisioning the outfit you’re going to pick out when nanami ultimately decides to take you out on a romantic –

“no thanks,” nanami grunts, reaching over to grab for the little “employee sanitation guidelines” card from behind the registrar and placing it smack in the middle of the counter for all to see. “i don’t do rebound relationships.”

your jaw practically drops, and it’s almost impressive how fast you go from wanting to fuck this man to wanting to kill him in one sitting.

“excuse me?” you gape, practically fuming from the ears at the thought of even the homely, school-centered nanami kento knowing about your disaster of a breakup with your deadbeat boyfriend.

the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting an amused smile, and annoyingly enough, it kind of suits him. he simply reaches over the counter to pat your steaming head with enough concern to slightly dampen the flames of your fury before turning to pin an order slip by the kitchen window.

“call me when you have no intentions of seeing him anymore.”

you glare at him hard. “offer rewoked.”

“it’s revoked, doll.”

you decide, right then and there, that nanami kento and his beefy biceps and low-hanging glasses aren’t worth all this trouble anyway. hell, you’d even flashed him your best smile! the kind that made professors forgive your patchy attendance and made sukuna fold in 30 seconds flat. did that mean nothing to him?

with a huff and a sharp turn on your heel, you’re on your way to your next destination: the shadiest corner in the parking lots behind the apartment complexes.

you decide you’ll try choso next, partly because he’d been a recurring fling of yours in freshman year and partly because it’s easy to score a meeting with him due to his – well – occupation.

you suppose that’s how you ended up in the passenger seat of his tinted black car under the false pretense of a drug deal, as choso kamo blinks at you slowly from behind the wheel.

“you’re here to buy weed,” he says cautiously, but you’re far too busy sizing up his transportation to pay him much attention.

“uh-huh,” you say mindlessly, running your fingers across the hood of his car. it’s got that fresh new car smell despite being over 3 years old, and you’re frankly pleased that sweet, sensitive choso hasn’t traded his natural hygienic nature to whatever body spray-scented madness your ex has going on in his own ride.

but as much as you’d like to be sitting pretty in the passenger seat of that musty old car again, desperate times call for desperate measures. and choso – dark-eyed, mysterious, and tattooed choso is exactly the type of man that would drive sukuna insane.

and honestly, you get the hype! if anything, that’s exactly why you’d been spread out in the backseat of this very car every monday, wednesday, and friday night in freshman year before you’d inevitably been snatched up by your ex.

“but. . .” choso starts. “you don’t even smoke.”

the senior carefully eyes you from beneath those messy black locks tied up into two space buns, tattooed fingers coming down to tap at the wheel in anticipation. it’s obvious you still make him a little nervous, and you have to keep yourself from smiling when it hits you that you have the campus plug wrapped around your pretty little finger after all this time.

you are so getting it this time.

“hmm, you caught me,” you murmur softly, leaning over the center console until your perfume fills the space between you. “sue a girl for wanting an excuse to see you again, cho.”

choso visibly stiffens in his seat, looking waayyy too flustered for a man in the middle of a deal. “are you flirting with me?”

“i just think,” you continue slyly, dragging a nail across the armrest of one of his leather seats. “that a guy as cute as you should take me out for real this time.”

bingo. you brace yourself for the nastiest makeout session of your life when he subconsciously starts leaning closer, cheeks red and eyes trained solely on your lips before –

“i can’t.”

“what?” you screech, and the deafening sound of your fury makes the boy wince. “why?!”

“because,” he tries to reason with you, burying his tattooed face in his palms and groaning as if turning you down pains him just as much. “your ex buys from me.”

you gasp, blinking at him in utter disbelief as he awkwardly begins to rub at his neck like a teenager fresh out of high school. “he’s like one of my best customers . . . i’m sorry.”

“oh my god, cho,” you sputter, collapsing against the passenger seat as he looks over at you with poorly concealed pity. “you supply my ex with weed?”

“to be fair, he mostly buys edibles.”

“not helping!” you snarl, opening the passenger seat and promptly stepping out into the cold air. any weather, you suppose, would be easier than being subject to more of this humiliation. “ugh, have a good night.”

“wait,” choso says suddenly, and you stop in your tracks just before you can slam the door shut in his face.

“do you still want the weed?”

“no!”

.

.

.

never, in your 20 fabulous years of life, did you ever expect to lose to emotional intelligence and criminal commitment to customer loyalty.

you’re campus royalty, for goodness’ sake! being turned down by men should’ve remained something unheard of in your limited dictionary, and yet here you are, dragging your heels across pavement after one rejection after the other.

had the men on this campus developed an immunity to your charm overnight? or worse yet, had you somehow lost it in those three years you’d been tied to sukuna? you practically shiver thinking about it, furiously fishing your phone from your purse to text becky.

you

THIS CAMPUS IS SICK!!!!!!!!

you

THE DRUG DEALER REJECTED ME

when you pocket your phone and find it in yourself to look up, the sky overhead has long since faded into deep shades of indigo, and you find that not even the cool breeze is enough to cure the hurt of humiliation that still swirls in your chest.

and even worse? you’re late to physics.

you don’t know why a fashion merchandising major would even need to take physics in the first place, but you drag your feet towards your sweaty lecture anyway. you’d caught something about general-ed requirements and a bunch of other bureaucratic crap before you tuned out your incredibly unhelpful academic advisor halfway through his pointless rambling.

you decide not to skip anyway, for fear of your terrible prof and a sinking feeling you’d try for toji fushiguro next. and if you’re being completely honest, the thought of cozying up to the hot, recently single, phys-ed major while he’s got little megumi at home is enough to make the hairs on your neck stand up a second time.

a step-child is not a commitment you’re ready to make — fake girlfriend or otherwise.

still, that’s not to say you don’t believe whoever invented evening lectures deserves jail time.

by the time you push open the heavy doors to your lecture hall, you’re already 30 minutes late, wildly irritated, and running completely out of spite.

“nice of you to join us, l/n,” your professor huffs, sending you a glare over his shoulder as a few students deviate attention from their notes to snicker quietly.

“sorry, mister!” you chirp sweetly, flashing him your prettiest smile and straightening up to toss your hair and scan the hall for an available seat.

unfortunately for you, physics majors are horrifyingly punctual. they fill up every nook and cranny of the place, and when your eyes finally land on one, singular seat by the very back row, you have to bite your tongue to suppress a groan. of fucking course.

you begin the humiliating trek to the back anyway, looking around for any halfway-decent men to distract yourself with in the meantime. and to nobody’s luck, they get worse and worse the deeper into the room you get.

too lanky. too sweaty. one briefly catches your eye, and you briefly consider hitting him up after class before he sneezes directly into his hand, and you think mm, better not. your gaze continually sweeps the nerds that fill the room before they finally land on the occupant of the seat next to your empty one.

you pause, blinking hard like it’ll make the sight before you any less real.

how tall is this guy? you frown, shuffling into your seat and hardly even bothering to pull out a notebook as you rake over him from head to toe. he’s 190cm, at the very least.

and that hair. is it natural? dyed? where have you seen this guy before? you can barely keep from pumping your fist when you realize he’s too busy to notice you oggling, scribbling equations across a notebook already overflowing with messy handwriting and post-it notes.

heck, you even begin to think he might be halfway decent if it weren’t for the suffocating scent of nerd and those thick-framed glasses sitting atop his nose before you pinch yourself for even having the thought in the first place. it makes you shake your head violently, not at all minding if you look like a madwoman.

suddenly feeling faint, you obnoxiously rustle through your purse for a stick of gum without minding the stares you receive for noisily going through your everyday items like a raccoon. whatever. you’d find the perfect scapegoat to make sukuna come crawling back to you in the span of a little less than a week, and your sleazy ex could come kiss your big, hairy –

“l/n and gojo satoru,” your professor’s voice cuts through the room, and your head snaps up the moment your name is called. you look around to see if anyone else had caught what the old croak had been saying prior, but your nerdy classmates all seem to have their heads buried in their notes.

“hey,” you whisper, lightly nudging your seatmate’s ankle with a polished heel. “what’d the old guy say?”

your seatmate finally stops writing. and when he looks up at you from beneath those long, white lashes, you’d almost forgotten what you were trying to ask him in the first place. when he sighs and sets his pencil down, you’re far too entranced by the magnificent blue that sits behind his eyes to care.

they’re electric. sharp. like somebody had stolen them out of an anime and magicked them into the body of an exhausted physics major.

“the professor,” he says slowly, like he’s speaking to someone who’s mildly concussed. “was assigning partners for the paper due tomorrow?”

and oh, he knows you. every living soul on campus knows your name. 

even if gojo had somehow managed to successfully evade the endless stream of gossip that flows throughout your university, he’d still recognize you on sight. it’d be impossible not to. pretty girls with perfect hair and a talent for commanding a room are usually hard to miss.

unfortunately, your reputation doesn’t really stop there.

he’s heard more stories than he can count about your infamous relationship with ryomen sukuna. the breakups. the makeups. the screaming matches outside the frat house and the dramatic reconciliations that always seem to occur when everybody has begun to accept that you’re over for good.

and to be frank, he’s never understood it. not your popularity, and definitely not your very public relationship. not when someone who’s clearly capable of having whoever she pleases chooses the guy who treats commitment like a summer job.

unfortunately, none of that is going to change the fact that he’s been forced into writing a physics paper with you. 

“tomorrow?!” you yelp, immediately bowing your head to apologize when multiple heads come to turn to the source of the noise. “. . . and who’s gojo?”

“that would be me.”

oh.

so that’s where you’d seen him before.

you lean back in your chair to assess him with squinted eyes, rubbing your chin in a manner that makes your seatmate wonder if he’s somehow landed in a bad detective movie. “you related to toru from sigma chi, or do you just have a secret double life?”

if the way gojo’s lips purse into a thin line is anything to go by, your joke didn’t exactly land.

“he’s my twin,” he explains frankly. and when he impatiently drums his fingers on the table like he’s got somewhere more important to be, you’re finally smacked in the face with what should have been apparent before:

he doesn’t like you very much.

but can you blame him, really, when you’d just been ruthlessly assessing the value of all his male classmates five minutes prior? if your senses are anything to go by, this gojo person is a lot more perceptive than his meathead brother.

not that you could care less about a grumpy nerd and his freaky sense of perception. you came here with one mission, and one mission only – to get your attendance signed for this stupid lecture. paper be damned; you’ll get to that when you manage to find the perfect temporary boyfriend whose only purpose is to get you back with your real boyfriend.

unfortunately, your professor seems determined to ruin your day even further.

“before anyone leaves,” he pipes up as students begin packing their things. “work must be split evenly between two partners. pairs who do not follow the fifty-fifty contribution rule will automatically be given failing marks.”

immediately, you find yourself sitting straighter.

“peer reviews will also be considered.” your professor finishes. students begin to filter out of the lecture hall as quickly as they came, and you only break out of your shock-induced trance when gojo begins to stir beside you.

next to you, gojo simply gathers his notes into a clear folder as you stare at him in utter disbelief. because seriously, who even uses folders?

“so,” you clear your throat, refusing to falter when he looks over at you with those horrifyingly pretty eyes. you flash him the most genuine smile you can muster, but the man is unmoved. “you won’t let me down during that peer review, won’t you?”

gojo narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, and it almost makes you regret asking.

“as long as you do exactly fifty percent of it, sure.”

“listen – i’ve kinda got this thing tonight.” you rub your neck, but the disgustingly handsome freak your professor did you the disservice of pairing you with is as clueless as ever.

“so do i,” he shrugs, neatly placing the rest of his things into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

you frown. “doing what?”

“homework.”

your face immediately falls, but you somehow manage to conceal the soul-crushing urge to laugh when he looks at you like he’s confused you had a reaction to his very real, very pressing plans he needs to get to. tonight.

looks like you have no other choice.

“fine, but i’m driving.” you pinch your nose bridge with one hand and shovel your minimal belongings into your purse with the other. “where do we work on this thing?”

“the library?”

“uh, ew.”

“a cafe?”

“too many people.”

“the student center, then?”

“double ew,” you cross your arms, glaring up at your exasperated new partner as he glowers right back at you with the heat of a thousand suns.

the white-haired man groans, rubbing at his cheek with one hand. “what about your apartment?”

the suggestion leaves his mouth casually enough, but it’s almost like this gojo person has struck you in the face from the way your heart drops to your stomach. absolutely not. not when sukuna still hasn’t hauled his things out of your apartment after you told him to do it weeks ago.

he could barge in at any moment, and you’d seriously rather not take the time out of your day explaining to him why there’s a geek sitting pretty in your apartment.

you look away, arms still crossed. and you so hate the way gojo is sizing you up right now, trying to figure out why exactly your face dropped. “can’t. i’ve got rats.”

“uh-huh,” he squints, and you’re both completely oblivious of the way the lecture hall has completely fizzled out of people aside from the two of you right now. “where do you live again?”

“. . . the luxury apartments on oak street?”

when your partner blinks at you, you blurt out the first thing on the tip of your tongue to save you from your own stupid lie. “they’re very aggressive rats. big and mean.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a ghost of a smile for the first time tonight, just enough to annoy you enough to glare down at your feet in the hopes he won’t call out our lame fib.

“right, my place then.”

you look up, and gojo mentally notes that that’s the fastest he’s ever seen you move – in class and on campus. from the way you immediately recoil, he guesses you’re not very fond of that suggestion either.

he sighs, already halfway through pitching his next venue idea to you when you cut him off with an urgency that leaves even him uneasy.

“alright,” you say quietly, and the man has to refrain from rubbing his ears to see if he’d just heard you correctly.

“wha- are you serious?”

“what, do you not want to do it in your apartment?” you look up to glare at him through your lashes, and the tips of his ears burn red from your poor choice of wording. satoru has to give himself a few seconds to recalibrate before he even thinks about responding.

did you really have to say it like that?

“it’s just . . . you didn’t like any of the other places i said.”

you blink, and for the first time since you’ve been granted the displeasure of this man’s company, you turn to really look at him.

not glance, look. and somehow, the image of gojo satoru is a little less intimidating up close.

sure, he’s just about as tall as a doorframe, but without the harsh lights of the lecture hall turning him into some kind of academic cryptid, the shadows that grace his features now just make him look like a tired college student. his white hair sticks out in every direction imaginable, and his navy sweater hangs three sizes too loose over his body like he hadn’t even bothered to check the tag before he paid for it.

plus, his glasses are crooked. not very noticeably so, but they hang dangerously low on his nose. so much so, that they force him to push them back up every few minutes.

he’s nothing like toru, who dresses like he’s god’s gift to women. and honestly? it’s kind of pathetic. a little cute, even, and you immediately shudder at the thought.

“what now?” satoru frowns, and it’s only then that you realize you’ve been staring.

“nothing,” you blurt out, and gojo starts to look a little suspicious.

the truth is, you feel a little silly now.

for every suggestion he made, you shot it down with one harsh blow after another. the library was too dingy. the café was too crowded. the student center was. . . well, student center-y.

and through all of it, this guy stood there like a man who was just trying to finish his damn paper — and make his partner feel a little more comfortable throughout the process.

gross, you think self-awareness might be your least favorite motion.

“i just think your apartment’s fine,” you mutter, unable to meet his eyes all of a sudden. gojo blinks once, then twice, like he’s waiting for the punchline for a bad joke.

it never comes.

“alright,” he says, honestly a little stunned you’d given in so easily. and to his apartment, of all places. did someone hit you in the head prior to this? your differences aside, he sure hopes not.

and that’s it. no sly smiles, no teasing, and definitely no celebrating victories. your white-haired partner simply exists in the same space, clearly relieved you stopped trying to put up a fight.

you don’t know why that irritates you so, but you haul ass and drag your purse over your shoulder anyway. after all, you have a paper to finish.

outside, campus has fallen into its usual evening rhythm.

the streetlamps illuminate the darkness, casting golden splotches of light onto the streets and across the sidewalks. the students have lessened by this time, traveling between buildings in little groups as they laugh and carry on with their takeout containers.

obnoxious music blares through one of the boy’s dorm windows, and off in the distance, you spy a couple talking and laughing on a bench.

you don’t know why your stomach twists at the sight.

you shove your hands into your pocket, and beside you, satoru is enveloped in a strange kind of silence that neither of you really know how to get past. like neither of you really expected to spend your evening together.

when you reach your vehicle that you’d conveniently parked in the farthest corner of your building, your new nerd friend suddenly slows next to you.

“hey, what’s —“

“shoko?” he blinks, and you stop in your tracks.

his gaze is trained onto something like it’s grabbed him and refuses to let go, and when you follow his eyes, you begin to understand why.

only 5 feet away, shoko ieiri is stepping off her motorbike beneath one of the flickering street lamps. she’s dressed in black scrubs and an oversized jacket, dark circles gracing her features in a way that makes the woman even prettier, somehow.

which is unfair, really.

“satoru,” she calls out, tucking her bike helmet under her arm and flashing you two a lazy smile. “is that you?”

and oh, you know this girl. everyone does. shoko ieiri is only 20 and has somehow managed to become a full-time medical student and part-time campus legend.

you’ve heard enough stories about this lady to write her a biography, for goodness’ sake. rumor has it is that she scored ninety-seventh percentile on the mcat while absurdly hungover.

she’s brilliant, beautiful, and weirdly enough —

friends with gojo satoru.

the same kid who’s wearing a sweater that could house a family of four and whose glasses have almost slipped right off his nose for the tenth time tonight. and when you spot his ears go red from the corner of your eye, you have to keep yourself from grinning.

interesting.

“oh? who’s your friend?” she asks kindly, a smile slowly creeping onto her face when she rakes her eyes over the way you fall into step beside one another.

the reaction is immediate.

“we’re not —“

“no.” you huff, the two of you speaking at the same time. shoko raises an amused brow, and you only smile at her sweetly. gojo on the other hand, looks like he’s about to combust.

“we’re partners,” you say simply, shifting your weight from one foot to another in an attempt to fend off the cold.

“. . . for physics,” the white-haired boy adds, but to no avail. shoko’s infuriatingly beautiful smile only grows wider and more suspicious of you two by the second, and your eyes continue to flick between the two of them like you’ve been personally tasked to assess the situation.

because if you know anything at all — it’s love.

and from the way gojo satoru fiddles with his fingers and looks down at his feet, he’s got it pretty damn bad.

oh, you could bark out a laugh right here and now.

“well, good luck with that,” she grins, and before gojo can stop her to say she’s got it all wrong, she’s off like a woman on a mission. “i’ll get going now. these readings won’t complete themselves.”

“uh, bye — !”

“bye honey,” you chime in after your rather pathetic excuse of an assignment partner, and she shoots you a salute you before she’s off, probably in the direction of the library.

you bet gojo is pretty damn grateful you insisted on his apartment right about now.

the moment shoko turns the corner and is completely out of sight, you turn around to look at him accusingly.

“you have the hots for shoko ieiri.”

“no i don’t,” he retorts, wincing when you bark out a mean laugh and fiddle with your keys to unlock your car. the moment the vehicle clicks and the headlights whirr to life, he’s immediately sliding into the passenger seat like it’ll save him from any more of your humiliation.

it doesn’t.

“i dunno,” you tease, opening up the door to the driver’s seat and sliding inside. “that response was pretty fuckin’ quick.”

“i don’t have ‘the hots’ for her,” gojo starts. he grabs at his seatbelt, pressing down until he hears a click before he’s fiddling with his fingers again. “i have a completely normal amount of respectable feelings for her.”

you double down in laughter, pulling out of the parking lot as your newfound friend seethes in the seat beside you. “she is so out of your league, nerd.”

“yeah, yeah,” he mutters, and you hate yourself for wanting to coo at the pout you can hear in his voice.

maybe your breakup with sukuna really had messed you up, because you’re not quite sure where in between your rocky relationship with a frat boy your brain decided to be attracted to pathetic, loser men.

“if it makes you feel better, i think she might be into you too.” you glance over your shoulder to smile at him, and for the first time tonight, it’s completely genuine.

“. . . you think so?”

“i know this stuff,” you say as a matter-of-factly, and gojo turns to look at you with an indescribable twinkle in his eyes that he quite obviously tries very hard to hide. “trust me.”

you glance to the side, and the look on his face is enough to make your stomach churn. because for one, glorious second, satoru forgets to be suspicious of you.

he doesn’t glare, or squint, or retort — he only looks hopeful. in that disgustingly sincere, gojo satoru way. so much so, that you nearly regret opening your mouth lest you give him false hope.

which is unusual, because you’ve known this man for exactly two hours and thirty five minutes, and spent ninety percent of that time warring over this stupid paper your professor wants on his desk by tomorrow morning.

you snap your eyes back onto the road. focus.

the conversation fizzles out naturally after that, and the radio begins to buzz louder than your words once did. streetlights flash past your tinted windows in consistent intervals, and somewhere along the way, gojo stops fiddling with his fingers and sinks deeper into his seat.

neither of you say anything for a long time. and somehow, you don’t seem to mind it.

maybe because you’re tired. or maybe — maybe because you’re not quite used to men that don’t demand everything from you at any given moment.

satoru simply exists beside you, like any other stranger at university would. deep down, you find that you quite like that.

you sneak a glance sideways, and gojo is staring out the window. and before you can even begin to stop yourself, your mouth is running.

“sorry for being a dick earlier,” you murmur, shrinking under the weight of his gaze when he shifts in his seat to look at you.

“what for?” he blinks, and your heart twinges in your chest. gojo might be a little clueless, but that doesn’t mean he’s not deserving of a proper apology. for fear of chickening out under the weight of your pride, you will yourself to speak.

“you know, our choice of venue?” you wince, clearly a little embarrassed by the way you’d been acting. satoru’s mouth forms into an o as a way of telling you he understands.

“i’ve been dealing with some things,” you continue, letting out a deep exhale you were unaware you’d been holding in. “but i shouldn’t have let it out on you the way i did. i’m sorry.”

for one, agonizing moment, gojo doesn’t answer.

outside, the city hums with a fervor you can only really get in the heart of a college town. tires roll on the asphalt outside, distant music blares from dorm windows, and students wander like they haven’t got responsibilities they need to tend to at sunrise.

then, he shrugs. “it’s okay.”

your eyes narrow when you sneak another glance at him. his attention has drifted back over to the window, but there’s something about his breathing and the way his shoulders relax that tells you there’s something softer about him now. less guarded.

“no it’s not, that’s literally the worst response to an apology i’ve ever heard.”

“what?” he frowns, looking over to where you irritably tap your fingers against the leather wheel. “what was i supposed to say?”

“i dunno,” you groan, gripping the steering wheel tighter in an attempt to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. “something that makes me feel a little less guilty?”

gojo snorts. “you feel guilty?”

you sigh, and you think you would’ve hid your head in your hands by now if they weren’t already occupied. “don’t make it weird.”

“i’m not,” he says quickly, and you glance over. “i’m just surprised.”

“why’s that?” you hum, and the sound of the car motor fills the brief silence that follows. in his seat, satoru is staring at the passing streetlights like they’ve miraculously become more interesting than your conversation.

“i thought people like you didn’t apologize,” he says absentmindedly.

“people like me?” “you know, popular people.”

you’re unable to find it in you to hold back a genuine fit of laughter, and the sound vibrates in the stunned man’s ears like a blessing. not that he’d ever admit that.

“that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard you say,” you wheeze, one hand coming up to wipe a stray tear from your eye before returning to the wheel.

gojo, on the other hand, looks deeply offended. “i don’t say dumb things. i thought you were apologizing?”

“i was, then you decided to go say something dumb.” you roll your eyes through a fit of giggles, and in his seat, you swear you catch a glimpse of your partner trying to conceal the ghost of a smile.

“so much for being sorry.”

.

.

.

the second satoru opens the door to his apartment complex, you come to realize two things:

the first being that if the freakish orderliness of his living space is anything to go by, he most definitely lives alone.

the second, and most glaring, for reasons that are currently attacking your eyeline, is that he’s an even bigger nerd than you had ever imagined.

“are you kidding me?” you frown, running your fingers along the edges of his bookshelves where satoru’s numerous lego sets, a curated collection of astronomy magazines, and dusty academic journals reside.

“what?” he frowns. he shuffles on his feet from behind you, clearly a little nervous you’ve decided to size up his apartment – not that you care. it’s just . . .

was gojo satoru always this big of a geek?

by the tv, a framed photograph from a science competition you don’t bother looking close enough to identify gleams like a trophy. on the other end of the table, his rubik’s cube collection is stacked on top of one another from the largest cube to the smallest in a colorful array.

when you picture gojo hunched over, legs crossed on the fluffy carpet, tinkering with one of these things to see how fast he can solve it, you almost crack a smile.

almost.

“nothing, i just didn’t know you were such a damn nerd.”

clearly unimpressed, your white-haired partner rolls his eyes but shuffles around the place to find seat cushions for the two of you anyway.

when he pulls two cushions out from god knows where and lays them out onto the carpet, he plops down and looks up at you expectantly.

“sit.” he hums, and when you double back on satoru to call him a, quote, bossy nerd, your bickering comes alive once more.

and surprisingly enough, work gets done.

not a lot of work, but just around the right amount to get this bullcrap done by sunrise. you think it might be because the state of satoru’s apartment far surpasses your own – all warm lighting and vacuumed hardwood as opposed to your own dingy place, strewn with your ex’s forgotten sweaters and littered with shoes you’d forgotten to put back in the cubby.

his place feels comfortable. lived in. like the home of somebody who’s got their shit together and not some heartbroken college girl who’s been broken up with by the same guy for the nth time.

that, or satoru gojo is just a damn good project partner. every time you get stuck on a problem, he’s right next to you and explaining it in a way that doesn’t make you feel stupid. when he goes off on one of his overcomplicated tangents, you reel him back in before he disappears into the nerd dimension.

not that he wasn’t already swimming in it before.

the point is, you’re annoyingly functional, and time seems to go by faster the more you and satoru manage to get done. at one point in the night, you stretch your shoulders and yawn with a volume that should’ve been loud enough to make him look.

it doesn’t.

your eyes drift over to where he’s typing on his laptop instead, and satoru is exactly the same as usual: annoyingly focused, hopelessly nerdy, and completely oblivious to your staring.

you nudge him with your foot. “hey.”

“hmm?” he replies absentmindedly, typing away as you’re graciously giving him your full attention.

you nudge him again, harder this time, and it’s enough to make him stop working on the paper and glare up at you.

“what?” he says, and it’s accompanied by a sigh so loud that you have to keep yourself from laughing.

“say,” you start, leaning back on your elbows and pretending not to notice when his eyes flicker to your nearly-exposed chest, then back to you. “aren’t you gonna do something about your little crush?”

you’re not quite sure what the beautiful, enigmatic shoko ieiri has done to this boy, but the effect on him is almost immediate. his fingers stop mid-way through typing a sentence, and he stares at his screen like it’ll give him the answer if he looks hard enough.

then, he types over the silence as if you’d never said anything at all. nothing of importance, at least.

“nothing,” satoru answers, eyes flickering left and right on his laptop screen significantly faster than they were before. “she’s been a friend of mine since high school. these things pass.”

you scoff. “i’ve known sukuna since high school, and everyone knows how that ended.”

“you’re comparing a hallway crush to your toxic situation with your boyfriend,” he quips, and the bastard doesn’t even look up as you fume at the mention of sukuna.

“ex-boyfriend,” you correct him immediately. gojo shrugs.

“tomato, tom-ah-to.”

ignoring another one of his smart ass responses that you, quite frankly, don’t even understand, you push at him harder. “whatever, loser, you and i both know that’s not an excuse.”

this time, it’s satoru’s turn to groan exasperatedly, leaning back against the couch and staring at the ceiling like it holds all the secrets of the world. one beat passes, then another, and you almost gear yourself up to make another stretch and get back to work when he speaks again.

“. . . she’s experienced. i’m not.”

you raise your brows. “experienced?”

the rather pathetic physics major raises his head to glower right at you, blinking up at him, and genuinely confused.

“you know what i mean,” he sighs, running a hand down his face when you stare at him from across the floor table like he’s gone mad.

“no,” you say, awkwardly rubbing at your neck. “i don’t.”

a groan slips past his lips as he throws his head back against the couch cushions, the movement ruffling up his already messed-up hair. for one glorious second, he looks less like the put-together mystery from your physics lecture and more like a man who’s been pushed to the limit by one annoying classmate.

unfortunately for him, you’re having the time of your life.

the apartment falls silent for a moment, and suddenly, everything begins to click into place. the awkwardness. the red ears. the lack of confidence despite looking like, well, that.

“gojo,” you start, and he knows he’s been busted when a wild grin blooms across your face. “are you a virgin?”

one beat passes, then another, and satoru blinks up at you like it’s his turn to be deeply confused.

“. . . is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

you stare at him for half a second before you break.

and honestly, your laugh comes out so suddenly that it startles even you, who’s now begun to double down in her laughter and clutch at the carpets for dear life. across from you, gojo’s face immediately twists into something between annoyance and confusion as he watches you fold in on yourself.

“no,” you wheeze, clutching your stomach with one hand and wiping a tear from your eyes with another. “it’s not a bad thing.”

you’re not trying to be mean, because if anything, you’re impressed. the man is six-foot something of sweet cologne and a pretty damn good allowance by the looks of this apartment, not to mention his unfair genetics. if you had noticed satoru gojo sooner, you would’ve assumed girls were throwing themselves at his feet.

“it’s just . . . you look like that, and you’re telling me you haven’t done anything in twenty years?”

“twenty-one years,” he corrects immediately, but stops himself from pursuing that argument any further when he realizes he’s not exactly helping his own case. “and not everybody’s life revolves around dating.”

“you’re talking like you haven’t been in love with her for like, five years.”

“who said anything about love?” he murmurs defeatedly, tearing his eyes off of you when you only laugh harder.

you narrowly miss the cushion he tosses at you, and eventually, the conversation eventually dies the death it deserves. after a few final edits to your paper, a 30-minute attempt to get satoru’s dusty old printer to spit out said project, and another heated argument, you finally convince him not to walk you to your car.

“just go to sleep,” you blink, cocking your head as he stubbornly stays put by the door to his place, arms crossed and eyes winking off to sleep.“we’ve been up all night.”

the man is exhausted, and you can see it in the way his shoulders drop and the shadows that pool beneath his pretty eyes. he stands by the door with a fiery determination like he’s not half asleep as you know it, and you nearly scoff in his face.

“it’s dark,” he murmurs, head lolling when he yawns for the nth time in the past 5 minutes. “just let me walk you.”

“we’re in the safest part of campus,” you roll your eyes, shoving satoru back inside his apartment, where there’s no more space to argue with you. “just make sure that paper is on the old man’s desk by ten. g’night!”

“wait –”

with that, you’ve slammed the door in his face and his absurdly comfortable apartment forever, you hope.

and as your heels click on the pavement outside his apartment complex, you’re still smiling when you try to fish your keys from your purse. maybe it’s the relief of finally finishing the damn paper, or maybe it’s because you finally spent the last few hours thinking about something other than sukuna.

whatever it is, you carry it with you down the road to your beetle. because for whatever reason, your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. not completely healed, not even close. just lighter, like your prick of an ex-boyfriend has finally begun to flush from your system.

that is, until you glance up and regret ever leaving the damn apartment.

because less than five feet away and conveniently parked under a flickering streetlight is the devil himself: ryomen sukuna, leaning back against his black suv as you physically recoil at the sight of him. and to make matters worse, he spots you immediately, red eyes narrowing at you like he’s seeing double.

he isn’t, and it takes all of your self-control not to shrivel up under his red, hot stare.

for a moment, neither of you moves. the parking lot sits suspended in time, and you blink at each other underneath the orange glow of the streetlights and the distant sounds of nightlife. like you’re mutually suspicious.

unfortunately, life continues, and so does your ex.

“doll?” he frowns, and you’d gag at the nickname if it didn’t mean looking like a fool in front of this bastard. “what’re you doing here?”

your stomach drops, and you cross your arms over your chest in a poor attempt to conceal your slow-rising panic.

say something. anything.

“i was visiting my cousin,” you say quickly, and you keep yourself from wincing when his slit brows furrow in confusion. as far as sukuna’s knowledge and the truth go, you don’t have any cousins.

“your cousin . . . that i’ve never heard about?”

“well, you never asked.” you huff, glaring into the distance where you’re half-sure you parked your car. maybe if you started running now, you could . . . wait.

“i could ask you the same thing,” you continue flatly, and for the first time since spotting you, sukuna lets his gaze drift away from you and towards the apartment complex behind you.

slowly, downright cruelly, the pieces begin to fall into place.

the moving boxes. the suv. the fact that he’s standing under a streetlight at this ungodly hour.

“don’t tell me . . .” you gasp, taking a few steps back in horror when a grin blooms across your ex-boyfriend’s smug face. “your bum ass lives here now?”

this can’t be happening.

“bingo, pretty. so are you gonna tell me why you’re here at this hour or —”

“WAIT!” a shout tears through the emptiness of the parking lot, and both of your heads snap towards the apartment entrance.

a few feet away, the doors to the building blow open so fast they practically fly off the hinges. suddenly, poor, oblivious satoru gojo is jogging through the lot with your keys in hand and the urgency of a man trying to stop a national emergency.

“you forgot your keys in my apartment!” he calls out, waving them above his head like a madman. sukuna freezes. gojo keeps going.

“you would’ve been stuck out here all night. god, i leave you alone for five minutes and you – “

the words die in his mouth when he spots sukuna practically fuming from next to you, and satoru’s frantically waving hand immediately drops to his side, keys dangling along with the wind.

across from you, sukuna’s face contorts into multiple stages of horror in milliseconds, and you’re completely aware of how this looks. you, leaving this geek’s apartment after spending hours alone in the middle of the night.

you can practically see the image forming in his head, and something forms in his expression that 3 years of on-and-off makes pretty hard to miss: pure, unadulterated jealousy.

his eyes move from you, to satoru, to the keys in his hand, then the apartment complexes behind him, before a realization crashes into you with the force of a bullet train:

the perfect fake-boyfriend has been existing right under your nose for all this time, in the form of nerdy satoru gojo and his complete and utter inability to realize the kind of damage he causes.

“you forgot these,” satoru says weakly, like that’ll fix this utter mess.

right next to you, sukuna finds his voice again.

“what the fuck?”

taglist: @deputy-videogamer @vigilantlytemporalgauntlet @icdszn @888dez @babydollmee

𓇼 LEE HEESEUNG

the successful redemption arc

one of the og 4 boys for sure.

chill and laid back, but also 100% a loser trapped in a hot body. he becomes a favorite inside and outside the villa immediately !! he has a natural charm that has girls flocking to him.

being one of the 4 original girls, you couple up early on.

unlike the other villa couples, you two are surprisingly very mature. your little misunderstandings are gone in a snap because you talk them out properly.

fans live for your relationship because you don’t rush into physical intimacy either.

the king of casual touchiness. there’s always a hand on your shoulder or playing with your hair, but he never oversteps.

that is, until you outright tell him to. he’s very happy to do more if that’s what you want.

honestly so charming & endearing! a clip of him singing in the kitchens while making you a morning coffee goes viral because of his crazy vocals.

you share a kiss with another guy during a challenge? nope, not your fault. not one bit. he’s teasing you about it once the challenge is over, but not without a sly remark of how he could’ve done better.

you bet he’s kissing you silly under the covers that night as PROOF 💔💔

he’s never not with jay either, and it only makes him SO MUCH more appealing to the fans. they become the most unproblematic dynamic duo in the villa.

when casa comes around, he goes into it fully intending to be loyal to you.

he has you sneak out with him for a late night dip in the pool the night before as well.

you’re bringing up your worries about casa? “no one’s turning my head, alright? i’ve already got everything i need right here.”

you pull him in, and it’s your first full-blown (visible) kiss on screen. fans are SWOONING

until they’re not.

enter casa girl: witty, lowkey, charming, and a shared love for music with your man.

he tries to distance himself at first, he really does! but he ultimately ends up folding:( they share a kiss under the stars.

when the episode airs, heeseung becomes public enemy numbers 1.

he brings the girl back to the villa, and you immediately notice something’s off.

movie night happens the same day, and guess what?

their kiss is aired for everyone to see.

tears fall, sandals fly, the villa is in outrage. even sunghoon, who’s more quiet and reserved has his jaw dropping at the sight. sunoo gasps loudly.

you storm out, and heeseung is right behind you, desperately trying to explain himself.

your fight on the docks makes love island history. it’s raw, emotional, and fans have never seen you and him as torn as you are then.

“damn… that’s what she gets for trusting a man. 🥀”

absolutely spends the rest of the show trying to win you back.

immediately, the casa girl is out of the picture. he pulls you for a chat on the day beds and takes full accountability for his actions.

no excuses, no blaming his temptation. “you gave me something real, and it scared me. that’s something i need to work on, not you.”

it’s actually kinda respectable…? still, you’re not ready to forgive him.

heeseung gives you space, careful to not be too pushy. he, however, remains consistent with his actions.

little things like his longing looks from across the room, defending you when another villa girl starts getting catty, the way he talks about you to the other guys, the way he doesn’t look at the casa girl anymore despite sharing the same bed.

he doesn’t do it for show. if anything, he’s silently yearning.

it’s clear his heart is yours! the fans notice, and edits of his redemption arc begin to go viral. you notice as well, lol.

eventually, you get back together. except now, its on your terms.

that’s not to say you won’t pie him in the face during a challenge. you do.

heeseung takes it like a champ! he’s jumping for joy and smiling the entire day after because you’re finally his again.

he even… starts to call the other guys out on their shady behavior?

becomes somewhat of a source of advice for the other boys nearing the end of the show, considering he’s the oldest.

gradually, he gains back all his respect and locks it TF in during his final speech. you’re in tears by the end of it.

you finish the show as fourth placers. fans remember you for years to come as the most satisfying redemption arc on the show!

𓇼 PARK JONGSEONG

the man of everyone’s dreams

oh lord… this man is constantly going viral because he’s a walking meme.

jay’s “resentment, anger, shame…” confessional made in PURE disappointment goes viral after heeseung’s slip up at movie night.

his very shirtless part in the show’s intro where production had you all dancing and lip-syncing in bathing suits goes the most viral out of every islander.

and rightfully so!!

sexy af. you can’t explain it, but he has an aura to him that makes you feel secure whenever you pull each other for a chat.

naturally, you couple up early on.

your man is the voice of reason within the villa while making you a smashing breakfast every morning without fail.

you guys are the IT couple in the villa! both og contestants and absolutely killing every challenge.

similar to heeseung, challenges don’t really get in between the two of you. this man KNOWS how to keep his jealousy at bay while reminding himself you aren’t officially closed off yet.

you want to explore other connections?

jay becomes “she knows where home is” final boss.

also, is the #1 contestant that everyone is absolutely sure does not gaf about that 100k. even if you guys end up winning the prize money, best believe it’s all yours. 😭

another insanely popular guy outside the villa because he’s incredibly stable compared to the other boys, not to mention unintentionally funny.

when a fight breaks out in front of yall during the heart rate challenge, the scene cuts to a confessional where he just stares into the camera in disappointment.

fans absolutely eat it up.

takes selfies exactly like a facebook mom would when production tells him to take pictures for the love island socials. they go viral every time.

during nights in the villa, best believe jay never sleeps without his eye mask on. he sleeps flat on his back with his arms at his side too. it freaks you out.

this man sleeps like a damn log too. when you wake up, jay is still sleeping in the same fuckass position.

generally one of the most unproblematic guys in the villa. no one even dares to pick a fight.

this man TRULY shines during the baby challenge. everyone wakes up to fake babies crying at the foot of their beds? he doesn’t even question it. he’s a father now.

this man will have a fake baby on his hip while making breakfast for 5 different islanders.

you guys win the challenge.

speaking of challenges, he absolutely eats it up when you come out dressed in a cowgirl costume for one of them.

can’t keep his hands off of you the rest of the night. you’re even posted up on his lap during a confessional. he just smiles shamelessly. 😭

admittedly, when casa comes along he’s ALMOST tempted.

i mean what woman wouldn’t want a piece of this man?? still, he’s quick to put a stop to advances with a firm hand on their shoulder and a serious reminder that he’s taken.

(he’s not, because you STILL haven’t closed off. not that he cares.)

in the end, you guys make it to the final four!

has a hand on his chest when you walk out in your finale dress like you’re about to get married.

you have your final date on a beautiful night out on a yacht where you finally tell him you want to close off. he kisses you under the fireworks like he’s been waiting for this moment since the day he laid eyes on you.

spoiler alert: he has.

you guys end up being the runner-ups of your season! 🥈

𓇼 SIM JAEYUN

the casa boy who wins your heart

can’t see him as anything other than the casa boy who steals you away from your man in the villa tbh.

the story goes like this: you’ve had your eyes on villa boy from the start. you enter as a bombshell, take him from his girl, and end up in a solid couple.

happily ever after, right?

wrong.

your villa couple is a whirlwind of a romance. you’re locked in from the start. you guys and the viewers are absolutely convinced you’re making it to the finals. basically, you’re frontrunners to win.

your couple is everything you want in a man. kind, funny, and exactly your type on paper.

but… there’s no spark. and you’re even less interested in everyone else in the villa. little by little, your ‘solid’ couple starts to form invisible cracks.

still, when casa amor comes along you go into it fully intending to stay loyal to your couple.

enter jake, the casa amor boy who fully intends to steal you from your couple.

his tv intro goes something like— “yeah i know i’m a player. 😎 it’s LOVE island. i’m here to explore, not lock in on one girl on the first day.”

eats his words btw.

you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think he was cute from the get go. one look at his puppy eyes and the way the pool water trickles down his toned body, and you’re swooning. just the right amount to make you think this is it—this is who i’ll stick with until i get back to the villa.

you sit him down on your new bed after the first coupling in casa, and to the viewer’s surprise, you’re straight up with him:

“i have someone waiting for me back in the villa… and i’d be lying if i said i didn’t want to explore that connection when i’m out of here.” you tell him softly. the public appreciates your honesty! problem is, your thumb is rubbing circles over his knuckles and all jake can hear is ble ble bla bla.

to say he’s obsessed with you from the get go is an understatement. shocking everyone further, he agrees to your little arrangement. you’ll couple up and get back to the villa where you can get back to your man and jake can explore other connections too. easy peasy.

just because he agreed to basically give you a free ticket to get back to your man doesn’t mean he won’t make your time in the villa the most magical few days of your summer.

absolutely whipped.

jake knows you prefer hot chocolate to coffee. he knows you’re too tired to brush your hair at night, so he does it for you before you head to sleep. he knows all about your beef with one of the villa girls, so he defends your name when she thinks you’re not around to do it.

slowly but surely, he fills in whatever the boy back in the villa couldn’t.

convinces himself you’ll both return to the villa and explore other connections, but follows you around with stars in his eyes while being absolutely convinced you’re meant for each other. how that work? 😭

tweets of his intro with the caption “all men do is lie” are EVERYWHERE. bro is not the player he thinks he is…

speaking of his lies, this man will. not. kiss. a girl that isn’t you, even during challenges. he says it’s out of respect. everyone looks at him weird.

you notice. of course you do. still, your head is still at the boy back in the villa.

or at least, you think it is.

during your last night in casa, another one of the casa boys lets it slip that jake is waiting for you up on the rooftop. your heart drops. you don’t know if it’s in guilt or anticipation.

when you head up there, you can’t believe your eyes.

jake, mr. self-proclaimed player, somehow managed to set up a romantic date outside the plans of production. it’s complete with lit candles, a beautiful fort under the stars, and a meal he cooked himself.

against your better judgement, you’re touched, and you’re feeling things your original couple never made you feel.

“i thought we agreed to explore other connections?” “what, i can’t make a nice dinner for my friend?”

you lock eyes, and you can’t help but notice the way jake looks like he wants to say something else. in that moment, everything else melts away and you do the unthinkable.

you kiss him.

jake spends no time kissing you back, hands wrapping around your waist and sighing contentedly like he’s been yearning for this. (he has.)

you head to bed all smiley and giddy, and you wake up next morning like you’re headed to war. 😭

fans are pretty divided, you and jake’s connection becomes one of the most highly debated ones on the show.

“she a woman in male fields fr…” “i KNOW she didn’t just do that while xxx is waiting for her back in the villa.” “idc she and jake are literally meant to be.” “they are my winners fr.”

once you get back to the villa, everything is sunshine and rainbows. you couple up with your og man and he finds himself with one of the casa girls. everyone’s happy!

until they’re not.

you’re honest with your original couple about the kiss. it was one night and you were consumed by how genuine jake’s gesture was. he’s hurt, but he thanks you for telling the truth.

jake on the other hand, doesn’t even PRETEND to like his new couple. 😭

you feel longing looks from across the villa whenever you talk to your couple.

one of his confessionals go: “yeah so remember when i said i wouldn’t lock in with a girl from day one…? i want her back. haha.”

you have a surprisingly solid fanbase who YEARN for the casa days to come back. they refer to it as your golden era.

back in the villa, things just aren’t the same. you’re finally back with the boy you’ve wanted since your first day on the show, but you just can’t help but miss the way jake makes hot chocolate. the way he’d take a brush to your hair without asking. the feeling of his lips on yours.

one night, you toss and turn in your bed but you can’t sleep. in one of the most shocking moments of your season, you slip out of your shared bed and head to jake’s to pull him out for a chat.

he’s still rubbing his eyes, but his other hand is already wrapped around yours as he lets you drag him out without question.

you end up confessing to him that night, and you kiss again on the beach under the light of the moon. your little moment goes viral as one of the best love island confessions in history!!

but come the heart rate challenge, all hell breaks loose.

no absolutely no one outside the villas surprise, you and jake raise each other’s heart rate the most. inside the villa, however? the islanders are REELING. your respective couples feel betrayed.

eventually, you’re both dumped from the island in a surprise dumping thanks to the other islander’s votes 💔

you get to leave together, tho!! win-win!!

𓇼 PARK SUNGHOON

the bombshell only you didn’t want

oh he’s DEFINITELY a bombshell. just not in the way you’d expect.

walks in during a challenge as the villa’s hottest new bombshell. his aura is CRAZY and he’s hyped up endlessly on social media for his amazing visuals.

everybody wants a piece of him, until…

they realize this man has no chat whatsoever. affectionately, that’s just who he is. 💔

has his clarke moment: “can i pull you for a chat?” “yeah sure.” “so what’s your favorite color?” “black. 😐”

the girls aren’t quite sure what to do with him. the rest of the guys are a little jealous of him. he’s not very loved inside the villa at first. :(

you prefer to stay away from him because one: you’re already in a steady couple with one of the other villa guys and two: he’s too cold and uncaring for your liking.

there are betting pools online for how long he’ll last in the villa because he doesn’t have a clear connection with anyone or appear to be interested in anyone either.

cue the comments: “mann he’s just too hot for the villa.” “i’d really like for him to stay longer tho :(” “idc when he gets out im all his.”

then comes the most DRAMATIC recoupling of the show. this time, the boys get to choose.

thing is, no one’s really sure who sunghoon is going to choose because he’s a closed book. literally anything can happen.

it doesn’t help that he’s talked to almost every girl in the villa at least once during his short stay either.

he’s one of the first to pick. and in one of the most shocking twists of your season…

HE CHOOSES YOU?!!? the ONE girl he’s never spoken to who happens to be in most solid couple in the villa.

ouhhh jaws are dropped at the recoupling. your man is fuming. you aren’t happy either. even the host is at a loss for words. sunghoon looks pleased with himself.

literally no one could have predicted this.

he cracks a smile for one of the first times ever in the villa, and a shot of him smiling endearingly at nothing while you sit beside him fuming at the recoupling has watchers cackling.

you’re confused. fans are confused. he’s never shown an inkling of interest in you, at least not outwardly.

to say your couple started of rocky is… an understatement.

the plan was to ditch him at the next recoupling and get your man back. then, boom! happily ever after.

all you had to do was survive the rest of this cursed coupling.

until you’re not sure if you can anymore.

you’re loud, intense, and fiery. he’s the complete opposite. so why does sharing a bed and sleeping back-to-back feel more intense than it should…?

he never even touches you, and the air feels hotter. must be climate change.

surprisingly, sunghoon in a couple is annoyingly polite. you never even have to tell him to be. it’s like he’s fully aware you’re not so fond of him, but he does everything in his power to prove his interest in you that doesn’t involve saying it out loud.

doors are always opened for you. he down right refuses to kiss anyone who isn’t you during challenges. the last piece of apple slices are always reserved for you. breakfast is always on your makeup area before you’re even up and out of bed. (he had jay help him.)

you have to kiss during a challenge and you’re ready to just give him a peck and get this shit over with. however, he’s pulling you in with a gentle hold on your face like he’s been WAITING for this moment. 😭🙏

you’re still very much in contact with your original couple, but sunghoon doesn’t seem to be rattled by it at all. it makes you think he just coupled up with you to stay on the show. you almost want him to care, and you have no idea why.

you get fed up one day and ask him almost angrily: “why are you so nice to me?!”

sunghoon gives you a side eye like you’ve said something insane and snaps back. he says “…because i have manners?” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“we don’t even like each other!” “…we don’t?”

the two of you stare at each other in silence for a hot minute. then it hits you: he’s not cold or arrogant, just really awkward.

after that encounter, you’re oddly very protective of him.

he gets provoked by your original man one day when everybody’s geting ready for bed, and best believe you’re stepping in to defend sunghoon’s good name pronto.

EVERYONE is shocked. sunghoon looks at you with quiet appreciation.

it’s like you two fall into a pattern. every time something says an inkling of bad about this man you’re clocking them immediately. no questions asked.

“he said he wanted no pickles. 😡” typa relationship while he just stands there nodding like everything you say is law. 😭 you’re basically his walking translator.

at the next recoupling, everybody expects you to go back to your original couple. you were so solid, after all.

in a (not so shocking) turn of events, you don’t. you’ve already fallen for sunghoon.

the villa is in shambles over your ex man’s dumping from the villa. some of the guys claim you did him dirty, you had NONE of it.

casa amor comes, and everyone in the villa expects one of you to crumble.

nah bitch 😛 you come back from casa amor stronger than ever. by the time you get back, he’s waiting for you with a soft smile and asking you if you enjoyed yourself. you did!

you make it to the finals!

his reaction when you come out in your finale dress?? priceless. him flashing a rare toothy grin when you come out is a fan-favorite moment.

part of his speech goes something like this: “i’m not good with words, and i know i wasn’t even close to being your first choice at the start… but i want you to know i’ve only had eyes for you from the moment i walked into the villa. you were my first choice, even when i was everybody’s but yours.”

you finish the show as third placers with an INSANELY dedicated fanbase outside the villa as everyone’s favorite plot twist couple!!!

𓇼 KIM SUNOO

the drama king with a heart on his sleeve

staying true the events of iland, THIS MAN IS THE MOST POPULAR ISLANDER INSIDE AND OUTSIDE THE VILLA. he is the people’s princess fr.

a bombshell too, of course.

people just flock around him. 😩

the amaya papaya energy this man givess… his confessionals are constantly going viral because his reactions are just SO funny.

after walking in on a make out session between the villa’s resident “girl’s girl” and her best friend’s man, best believe he made a face and ran straight to the confessional booth.

“so guess what i just walked into rq…”

talks to himself in the dressing room because he KNOWS producers are going to have a field day with all his commentary. everyday is something new. grwms, self affirmations, a full breakdown of his skincare routine, it’s like this man was built for the cameras.

when he enters the villa, you’re already coupled up with someone else. someone who arguably doesn’t treat you very well. lingering stares pointed at other girls, blatant disregard for your feelings, secret kisses with others that you don’t know about, the whole package.

but the first time sunoo sees you, it’s full circle rom-com moment. he’s doing a double take and is so stunned mid-challenge that he fails to realize he’s about to get pied in the face by one of the other islanders. whipped cream ends up jammed in his ear.

no one in the villa seems to realize why he was blanked out… but social media knows.

“ouhhh the producers were messy for putting this man in the villa.” “FINALLY a decent guy for y/n.” “i hope he steals them away.”

you’re so kind, sweet, and genuine that this man decides he just HAS to have you. he’s friendly, but he doesn’t even pretend to be interested in the other villa girls when he goes on speed dates with all of you.

until your date. he’s smiling and giggling like a teenager at your painfully unfunny jokes because to him everything you say IS funny.

sunoo’s just like yea… your current mans won’t do. you best believe he’s going to do something about it.

and so the plotting commences.

literally. because he’s 100% open and honest that his intentions are to steal you even if it means prying you away from your couple’s cold, dead hands. just ask the confessional staff.

your current couple is blissfully unaware the bombshell everybody wants has his eyes on YOU, clearly not believing anyone else could be interested in you.

sunoo on the other hand, is propping himself up and looking pretty where he knows you pass by in the morning, courtesy of one of the villa girls sneaking him information.

he chats you up, and your dumb ahh is led to believe it’s a friendly conversation when he’s literally telling you how much better you’d look with him. 😭

he’s a jealous man tbh… he’s staring your couple down if he lays so much as a hand on you during challenges as if you’re already his.

petty king bcs he’s the type to snatch away the tea your man makes you for breakfast and replace it with his own. leaves the makeup room in whispers. you just sit there with a slight smile while doing your lashes while the other girls question you.

one time, he’s rushing to the seat next to you at breakfast before your couple can and telling you how good your hair looks today. viewers don’t miss the evil little smirk he sends to your man who stands there like this 🧍

is in the confessional later on nodding profusely and saying “i HOPE he saw that shit. serves him right.”

you’re still absolutely clueless. in your head, he’s written off as the friendly guy everybody loves. while you’re convinced there’s absolutely NO way he’s interested in you, there’s a little part of you that hopes he is.

enter the next recoupling.

you best believe sunoo snatches you up in the speed of light. everyone expected it but you. your ex-man is disappointed but ultimately backs off.

now, in a couple is where kim sunoo really shines.

you’re only just getting to know him and honestly in pure disbelief that you’re the one he set his sights on, so you’re admittedly skeptical when it comes to your new couple at first.

sunoo knows. does it rattle him? HELL no.

instead, he’s on a very loud mission to prove why he’s the better man.

come the baby challenge, this man is the best father. when everyone in the villa wakes up to mechanical babies crying at the foot of their beds, he springs into action.

he’s so funny with it too. 😭 manages to start imaginary beef with another couple’s baby.

absolutely insists that no swearing is allowed in front of the damn robot babies. production thought it would be funny to give you two, so he’s pushing around two strollers like they’re real children with a pacifier in his mouth all day. says your pretty face doesn’t even have to lift a finger.

edits of him with the song a single mom who works two jobs go viral on tiktok. he’s a mother now. no drama.

you don’t win the challenge, but the internet says you were absolutely robbed.

at one point during your time in the villa, a couple who happen to be friends of yours fall into a rough patch. there’s screaming, fighting, and pillow throwing. you and sunoo look at each other in absolute FEAR.

when the two of you decide you’ve had enough, you orchestrate an evil plan and each tell one of them to meet you at the pool in a desperate attempt to get them to talk.

it works. the two of you are giggling from a distance.

slowly, he starts to feel more like a friend than the untouchable bombshell. while he’s mischievous and sassy when he wants to be, he’s also undeniably kind, sensitive, and vulnerable. whenever you’re not near each other, he’s sneaking glances at you from across the villa as if he’s still pining.

literally nobody can doubt his adoration for you.

when casa amor comes around, he avoids women like the plague. he does what’s required of him to stay on the show, and that’s IT. you blink, and suddenly he’s back in your arms like casa never happened.

that’s not to say he’s not somehow updated on everyone else’s drama. he is. he never stops being the people magnet. very much not afraid to stand up for another islander when they’re being wronged, either.

when you come out in your finale dress, his reaction is one for the books. he looks like he needs to lie down.

you bet he’s planting kisses all over your face the moment you finish your little slow mo walking moment.

anddd… DING DING DING!! you guys win the season due to his insane popularity outside the villa. you split the money, of course. 🥇

𓇼 YANG JUNGWON

the enemy who came to your defense

his story in the villa is lowkey messy af for someone so kind and sensible.

here’s the thing: he sees you, he wants you, he couples up with you early on.

this sweet, sweet boy runs on honesty and respect. the girls love him. the guys confide in him.

consistently ranks realllyyy high on public voting too. nobody can get enough of jungwon, who remains level headed even in a villa full of snakes and cheaters.

another voice of reason within the villa!

that is, until your couple goes south. you just can’t seem to understand each other. it’s like mixing oil and water.

little misunderstandings turn into full blown ARGUMENTS.

he’s calm, level-headed, and logical. almost too logical at times. you on the other hand? affectionate, empathetic, and highly emotional. a sensitive gangster. not a good match.

production doesn’t even bother to air all of your arguments anymore. fans realize when they catch a glimpse of your tiny figures arguing in the distance while another couple has another conversation.

you clearly bring out the worst in each other. it gets to the point where you both start to shamelessly explore other people.

when you see him making his breakfast in the mornings? you’re turning around and speed walking back to your room immediately.

this man even sleeps OUTSIDE in soul ties to avoid sharing a bed. 😭

in other words? your couple is absolutely cooked.

and that’s completely normal. it’s love island, after all. not every couple is going to have an earth-shattering love story never seen before.

and so your silent agreement to just wait it out until the next recoupling commences.

and somehow, you two survive it! at the next recoupling, you both end up with new partners. his new girl is smart, soft-spoken, and adores him.

you’d argue that your new guy is even better. he’s sweeter, softer, emotionally available.

everyone in the villa is SO relieved. no more arguments before 10 in the morning, or wordless glaring at the dinner table. just peace.

except, something feels off.

you’re bored. there’s no fireworks with this new guy. like, holding hands politely kind of boring. he’s clearly more into you thank you’re into him.

producers are messy af for placing your shared bed next to jungwon’s too. 😭

you decide you wanna have a little make out session with your new guy under the covers one night? oh jungwon hears ALL OF IT.

jungwon’s crash out to a confessional is one for the books.

he blames it on his lack of sleep. truth is? he’s silently spiraling. he stares at his cereal like it did him wrong. he’s less chipper around the other guys.

the fans notice, they always do!!

“wait i thought they’d be happy when they recoupled wtf is happening?” “jungwon is lowkey wrong af for acting like this considering he prayed for that damn recoupling.” “how is y/n bored ALREADY.”

then comes the mail challenge.

all islanders receive anonymous messages from each other. some are funny, some are brutally honest, and some are just downright mean.

most have some pretty basic stuff sent to them: “you’re a player.” “you’re the fakest girl in the villa.” yada yada yada.

and then comes the time for you to read yours. you take a deep breath, pull out the mail from the box, and begin to read it out loud from the podium.

“you act really young for your big age. grow up and stop turning everything into a sob story.” everyone goes silent. hell, even the crickets stop chirping. one villa boy coughs.

everyone’s eyes turn to jungwon to confirm if he wrote it, but they find something else instead. his eyebrows furrow and his fingernails are digging into his knees.

it’s as if the man you hate most in the villa is having a hard time believing anyone could ever think that about you.

you try to keep it in, you really do. but in a second, you’re walking off the podium and tears are falling even faster. the girls try to follow, but you wave them off. you’re done.

in a shocking turn of events, jungwon gets up to run after you. the episode ends on a cliffhanger. fans are TWEAKINGGG.

“WAIT WHAT.” “lovers to enemies to lovers???” “i wonder what he said to her?”

to nobody’s surprise, you’re not waiting for him with open arms.

“what are you doing here?” “making sure you don’t choke on your tears.”

you don’t take his comment lightly. when you turn your back to him, lips trembling, his eyes are widening like his attempt to make you laughed has failed miserably.

without missing another beat, he shrugs his jacket off and places it atop your shoulders. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it like that. i don’t see why anybody could ever write that about you.”

the fans… are swooning…?

“you never do.” you snap, and for the very first time, he’s finally speechless.

“i’ll leave you alone,” he breathes. “just know i’ve always liked you for how much you could feel. i was an idiot for not knowing how to meet you half way.”

you’re frozen. that’s when the great shift happens.

everybody, including your new couples are MORTIFIED when you and jungwon are the first to sit at the breakfast table the next morning. you’re talking, laughing even.

it’s not just that one morning either. you’re talking more, even smiling occasionally. the whole villa notices.

it gets to the point where some people can even consider you reluctant friends?

a shot of you two by the fire solo one night goes viral. NOBODY can seem to figure out what the hell is happening.

until the unthinkable happens.

the producers rig a compatibility quiz so that you and jungwon are partnered up. nobody expects you to win.

you ace it and win a free date along the way. favorite food? biggest dream? he knows it all.

the confessional where jungwon talks about loving you the correct way is another fan-favorite from the two of you.

at the next recoupling? you know damn well he chooses you. you’re completely different. he thinks that might be why he needs you.

and yes, he gets you back for all the sleepless nights you caused him. by giving your ex-couple sleepless nights too!😁

ironically, you’re dumped from the villa for being voted the “most incompatible couple.” but who are you to complain when you have your man to come home with?

𓇼 NISHIMURA RIKI

the chaotic villa best friend turned partner

nicolandria fans buckle up.

this og boy absolutely pines over you since day one, but you’re too busy exploring connection after connection that isn’t him.

yes, you’re both coupled up with other people. but the moment drama unfolds in front of everyone in the villa? you’re looking at each other like a pair of concerned teenagers as if to say are you seeing this shit?

the watchers definitely notice. well, it’s hard not to when you’re all this man can talk about during his confessionals.

“oh yeah… xxx told me she wants to close off. anyways, today y/n—“

definitely faces criticism early on in the show. viewers are like… this isn’t friendship island? everyone swears he’s going to get dumped from the island if he doesn’t make a genuine connection stat.

still, ni-ki somehow manages to defy all odds.

throughout the first half of the show, he gets into couples with the villa girls who are interested in him just because. none are a genuine connection.

fans argue that he’s the youngest in the villa, so maybe no one is quite on his wavelength??

still somehow manages to have 2 different villa girls fight over him. it’s a whole thing.

ni-ki doesn’t know the nicest way to admit he just doesn’t care if they’re not you, the girl he swore he’d just make friends with, and nothing more.

not that he’d ever say that out loud.

but there are definitely signs.

he’s only ever made breakfast for you. all his conversations with the guys lead back to you. the one who raised his heart rate the most during a challenge was you.

the other guys are quick notice the way he pulls you away the moment your current couple walks away for five seconds. pool, water fights in the kitchen, night swimming, you’ve done it all.

and you’re not even in a couple.

slowly but surely, the fans begin to see you guys as a breath of fresh air.

amidst all the fighting and drama in the villa, there’s not one moment where the two of you aren’t sneaking away for some quality content of your shenanigans on live tv.

one morning, ALL of your common opp’s underwear ends up floating in the pool.

no one owns up to it. the public know it was you two.

best believe your respective couples hate you guys for each other. maybe because there something’s been present between the two of you from the start.

dirt on you is aired on live tv during the dirty laundry challenge? your man is upset about it?

don’t worry, ni-ki is clapping and whistling to let you know he respects your devious work.

you pull him for a chat one day and tell him how grateful you are for being your voice of reason in the villa and the reason why your couple is going so well. you thank him for being a good friend.

he’s just nodding with an awkward smile.

holy. freaking. airball.

the public is in absolute shambles. everyone is waiting for the day you two wake up and get together.

it doesn’t come easy.

true to your word, you continue to explore connections. but come casa… you realize your couple is not in fact going well. in fact, none of your romantic connections are.

why? because they don’t make you laugh as genuinely. they don’t make you want to talk on and on for hours. they don’t make you feel the way ni-ki does.

during your time away, to say you re-evaluated all your connections in the villa is an understatement.

your discovery? you and nishimura riki are not in fact just friends. 🥀

so you gear yourself up. the moment you step back into the villa, you’re going to make things right. you don’t bother exploring connections in casa because the one you want to leave this place with is a villa away.

when you admit your feelings to another villa girl, the clip spreads like WILDFIRE. the internet goes crazy.

“WTF???” “I NEVER THOUGHT THE DAY WOULD COME?” “niky/n nation we won..?” your fans that other people dubbed as delusional go wild.

the future looks bright. that is, until you get back to the villa to see another girl on ni-ki’s arm.

holy airball part 2. you immediately go never fucking mind and make an angry confessional or two.

your fans are on an emotional roller coaster at this point. nobody knows how to feel. everyone is in shambles. the other islanders are gossiping about how dumb you guys are.

ni-ki on the other hand, genuinely doesn’t know what he did wrong. you don’t return his feelings, after all. was it so wrong for him to try and move on?

when you make it a point to avoid him whenever he tries to take you out to have some fun in the villa, ni-ki is on the verge of crashing out.

your misunderstandings lead to an petty comments, an argument, then full-on pillow fighting with resentment.

“you done talking yet?” “no?? what the fuck did i do wrong???” sunoo and his couple watch on from the corner of the shared bedroom in shock.

eventually, they have ENOUGH. when sunoo’s girl tells you to meet her down at the pool to “talk about the situation,” you tell her you’ll be there.

to your dismay, ni-ki sitting in the hot tub instead, wondering why sunoo isn’t where he said he’d meet him.

it finally clicks to the two of you: you’re being tricked into talking.

when you click your tongue and turn around to walk away, you feel his hand on yours to stop you from leaving. you freeze.

he’s breathless, asking “are you mad at me?” “mad at you?? of course i’m mad at you??? you act like you’re into me all summer then the moment i decide to tell you i’m into you too theres another—“

you better believe this man is shutting you up with the most soul crushing, toe curling, booty jiggling kiss. the hot tub kiss makes love island history. your fandom is cheering.

the slow burn is FINALLY over.

while you guys’s couple is solid, you’re deemed to have gotten together too late to place in the show. ❤️‍🩹

you’re dumped as a couple right before the finale. still, your relationship withstands the test of time for many years to come!

also? arguably the couple with the biggest fanbase on the show. LMFAO.

so when you close your eyes, you can almost feel it: the slight sheen of sweat that clung to your neck inside that clammy photobooth, the faint sound of jazz seeping in from beyond the curtains, and the incessant thrum of your beating heart. and most important of all –

the wrong that had settled into your gut as jake’s eyes bore into your own, searching you up and down for any semblance of mercy for his own actions.

it had been desperate. almost reverent. just enough to keep you awake most nights like you hadn’t already been tossing and turning in your sheets upon your enrollment to this cursed institution. and so when the clock hits four in the morning, you’re on your feet and out of the dorm, careful not to make so much as a peep as you slip past the oak doors and into the morning air. your mug is gone and so is your bookbag, yet your weighty presence lingers on inside like a stubborn perfume anyway.

you like to think your intentional absence doesn’t matter anyhow. at least, not to jake.

but if the bags under your eyes and way you and your roommate have returned to avoiding each other entirely are anything to go by, your little impromptu outing last weekend has left quite the stain on you instead.

and to think that it’s jake sim who has you lying awake in bed at night makes you want to curl into a ball of self loathing and —

“hey,” sunoo whispers evenly, long lashes fluttering at you as he blinks on from across the mahogany table of one of the many, many libraries that litter campus. “what’s wrong with you?”

you blink back, just as confused and twice as exhausted, scrambling to cook up an excuse that doesn’t involve your new living arrangement.

“nothing,” you say, a little too quickly this time as your fingers tighten around your mechanical pencil as though it might steady you. another hand comes up to rub at your heavy lids, pressing hard enough to itch away the sting. “there’s this new ta on everyone’s ass.”

a harmless half-truth. one that sounds flimsier the moment it leaves you.

still, with finals coming up like a slow and inevitable storm, you let yourself bear the slightest of hopes that sunoo won’t see past your lame fib.

“alright,” he hums, and it’s too measured; too careful.

“must be an awful guy,” the blonde drawls, leaning back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world for you alone, eyes fixed on your own like you’re the most interesting thing in the room.

and god, you loathe the way heat starts to curl up your neck.

somewhere along the way, upon forming your strange and precarious alliance with kim sunoo, you convinced yourself that lying would come easy. that it would slip naturally off the tongue like something justified. necessary, even.

and it had been, until now. because as his eyes drift from your vice grip on your beat-up pencil, to the way your jaw ticks, then to your own shaky orbs, you can’t find it in yourself to look back in defiance.

when you finally snap away from his gaze, you know you’ve been caught in a lie. and for a moment, the room lulls.

“should i get rid of him?” he asks, smiling. almost teasing. it’s soft, sweet, and entirely wrong, because you know he’d do it in a heartbeat if you did so much as nod yes.

your stomach drops, and for half a second, you’re back in that photobooth.

“you mean,“ you guffaw, but the words catch in your mouth as the realization settles. “the ta?”

sunoo tilts his head, blinking innocently. “who else?”

you huff, shaking your head like it’ll brush it off, but your grip on the pencil doesn’t loosen. to think of it, when was the last time you’d actually written anything? your head practically burns when you try to recall a time where you’d been unoccupied by the constant reminder of finals, council duties, and —

“oh fuck,” you gasp, standing so abruptly that your chair screeches as you stand. when the heads of poor, unsuspecting students whose only desires are to study for finals in peace snap towards you, you’re too frazzled to pay them any mind. “i gotta go.”

“what?” sunoo blinks, a flicker of genuine surprise dancing in his eyes for the first time this morning. ”so soon?”

“yeah, i forgot all about this meeting with yoon,” you heave, messily gathering your things and shoving them in your book back without sparing much attention to the way your papers fold and crinkle. “i better run over there before he lectures me about how hierarchy is maintained by conduct again.”

“but —“

you barely managed a rushed “i’ll see you!” before you’re scrambling on your feet and out the door, the irritated eyes of caffeinated students following you until you disappear into the hallways.

and sunoo, as always, would stay exactly where he was — composed, untouched, and above it all. because if you knew anything about him at all, you’d think he reveled in the pressure that yoon and the higher-ups liked to weigh upon your shoulders.

except you can practically feel his eyes burning into the curve of your back, and the hairs on your neck have basically begun to stand on their own.

you’re not sure what to make of it. in fact, you’re not sure what to make of anything anymore.

.

.

.

upon your return from your little excursion, jake has come to realize two things:

the first being that he’s gained an unusual partiality to taking photobooth pictures. if the feel of the smooth, glossy film in between his fingers and the way the sheen catches the light are anything to go by, you might as well have considered him hooked.

second, and quite frankly the most troubling for reasons he can’t quite place, is that you are clearly, most definitely avoiding him.

which shouldn’t be much of an issue at all, really, for two individuals who have been at each other’s throats since day one. it shouldn’t matter, not when one night shouldn’t be enough to shift into anything real.

except it is — and he cannot, for the life of him, seem to understand why.

the council room stretches around him, all tall windows and heavy chandeliers coating polished floors in their warmth. the long oak table lined woth high-backed chairs stretches across the center like a declaration of power, and jake finds that this place is quiet.

too quiet.

that is, until you’re bursting through the doors and yoon (read: who jake forgot was even present,) is jolting up furiously from across his wooden seat.

you, who’s slightly out of breath, hair disheveled just enough to tell him how much the day has weighed on you.

you, whose bag is practically sliding off your shoulders by the time you rush to take your seat beside him.

your chest rises and falls with every passing second, eyes sweeping across the room before they land on him for a moment too long before they're gone like they’d never been on him in the first place.

jake straightens in his seat, practically instinctive from the way his fingers curl around the arm rest. yoon tuts.

“late,” the older man scowls, and the words cut through the air like a fencing blade. you almost flinch, and jake winces when he’s granted the displeasure of noticing.

dorm master yoon stands imposingly at the head of the table, pocketing a silver pocket watch and expression carved from something cold and awfully cruel by the way he looks at you. or more specifically, the silver pin that gleams above your heart.

“i do hope your morning was productive enough to justify your absence from council duties,” he continues, voice clipped.

“it was, sir,” you say immediately, spine turning rigid when your dorm master snaps his head towards you. “i — i lost track of time.”

“time?” yoon repeats after you, steam practically coming from his head at how furious you’ve managed to make him. “i’ll have you know that hierarchy in this academy is maintained by — !“

“i sent her,” jake cuts in, and the words are clean. measured. they echo throughout the vastness of the council room like a simple truth, even when they are anything but. jake doesn’t even look at you when he says it, and for a second, the entire place stills.

your dorm master, still equally as enraged, turns to look at you with a disbelieving frown. “is this true?”

with your heart still pounding from the run, you can barely even open your mouth to speak when jake beats you to it.

“i needed documents from the archives,” he continues calmly, fingers lacing together on the table. “they weren’t where i needed them to be.”

a blatant lie.

you can hardly keep your jaw from dropping as yoon studies him for a long moment, expression tight as if he’s weighing whether or not to press further. and then –

“very well,” the bitter old man grunts. “see to it that your tasks are accounted for next time.”

“yes, sir,” you reply stiffly, and your words come out quieter this time around.

one beat passes, then another, before yoon is exhaling through his nose and adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. you think the movement alone is enough to feel dismissive. but then again, everything about the man does.

you find yourself wondering for a moment whether he gives other members of the council like yang jungwon half as much shit. altough the thought subsides when you realize that in complete fairness, it’s not as if you have a political dynasty for a bloodline like your classmate does.

“founder’s week is not simply another one of this academy’s self-indulgent traditions,” yoon begins sharply, shoes clacking on the polished floors before he comes to a stop beside a tall window. “it is tradition.”

you resist the urge to roll your eyes, and if jake feels the same, he certainly doesn’t show it.

“to commemorate the establishment of solstice academy through the graciousness of its generous donors, the students of your year and a select few talents from the lower pool are given a week to mingle amongst the country’s most elite,” yoon continues, and the morning light cuts at the sharp lines of his face. “meaning investors are present. politicians. alumni from the four corners of the world. founder’s week is where futures are decided, and this council oversees every aspect of it.”

jake’s fingers, which previously came down to tap at the arm rests have come to a halt.

you on the other hand, feel your exhaustion deepen tenfold.

when yoon approaches the mahogany table to set a thick folder down hard enough to make you jump in your seat, you pray your roommate doesn’t notice.

“sim,” he tuts, “you will oversee sponsorships and that security coordination with the parks go smoothly.”

“understood,” jake hums, nodding once like he’s already grown bored of the conversation.

“and you,” yoon sighs, craning his head to stare down at you like you’re scum on the floor. “you will manage logistics, media preparation, and see to it that our guests are tended to at every moment.”

your eye twitches. “of course.”

just when you think this new onslaught of council duties can’t possibly, get any worse, they do.

“as for the two of you jointly,” yoon drawls on, completely indifferent to the visible despair that creeps over your features. “you will supervise ballroom preparation and the opening ceremony.”

the room stills.

“. . . the opening ceremony?” jake frowns, and yoon sends him a look like the message should’ve been obvious.

“the first dance, of course,” he continues coolly, like you two were the crazy ones for not wanting to believe that such a silly tradition could’ve found itself nestled in this year’s festivities. “tradition states that the student council representatives open up the floor before the rest of the guests are permitted to partake.”

“pardon?” you choke, and you don’t miss the way jake’s hands ball into fists next to you. “will all due respect, i don’t think that’s –”

“you, of course, would need dance lessons,” yoon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a neatly gloved hand. “talk to miss lee down at reception by the end of this week. she should have accommodations for the two of you then.”

jake blinks. “the two of us?”

“the two of you,” old man yoon reaffirms, sterner this time. jake looks like he’s swallowed a rag whole. “can i trust that you will conduct yourselves in a manner that suits the best interests of our proud institution?”

for one slow and agonizing second, silence reigns over your resolve — not that you have much of that left.

rain taps softly against the tall glass of the windows, and the chapel bells toll distantly from somewhere far away from the north wing where you sit. the sound is haunting enough to sink beneath your skin and echo in your head, and from beside you, jake clears his throat.

“of course,” he replies, voice clipped. “you have my word.”

you swear you could groan in exasperation when yoon’s gaze drifts towards you expectedly.

“mine as well, sir.”

and in that moment, you decide that you detest it all; the strange heat that seems to climb up your neck as of late. the way that jake sim always seems so close despite standing a few feet away at all times. the fact the somewhere in between shameless bribery and arguments beneath stairwells and atop wooden docks, jake has become infuriatingly easy to exist beside.

you hate it all, and most of all, you hate him. so much so, that when you look up next you realize you hadn’t noticed that the council room had already emptied entirely until only you and jake remained at the helm.

chandeliers hum overhead, and somewhere outside, wind rattles against stained windows and ivy-covered walls.

your mouth begins to run before you can stop yourself.

“you didn’t have to lie for me,” you begin defeatedly, standing up to shovel papers into your satchel more aggressively than necessary.

“i didn’t lie,” jake retorts, glancing up slowly from where he’s adjusting his tie like he’s suddenly found it hard to breathe. “i improvised.”

was it always so hot in here?

your eye twitches. “that’s literally lying.”

now it’s jake’s turn to eye you wordlessly, and unexplainable fury reignites in your chest when the corners of his mouth twitch.

“you’re welcome, by the way.”

despite yourself, the memory of the jazz bar flashes embarrassingly fast through your head — red lights, vintage vinyl, and jake’s laugh vibrating low enough to settle in your chest. you push the thought away as fast as it came to you

your grip tightens around your bag strap, and without another word, your roommate is headed off to god-knows where.

though, not before he makes one final stop by the doorway.

“sleep more,” he says quietly, though his words come out more like a plea than a command from the way his shoulders square like he’s embarrassed to even be saying this. “i can hear you shuffle around in the common room at night, you know.”

you stand there long after he’s gone.

after the incident in the council room, you wish you could say that was the end of it.

or at least, it should've been — neatly tucked away into the growing box of shared secrets you’ve racked up with jake sim. except afterwards, he and his infuriating actions begin to grow on you like fungus.

it starts small: with a cup of coffee that materializes at the common room’s dining table when you snap awake from a particularly rigorous study session. no note, and still warm by the time you take notice. you spend ten whole minutes glowering at it before deciding to drink it anyway.

then came the incident in the courtyard.

he’d caught you cutting through the quad once, all tired eyes and heavy frowns that run so deep you’re sure it’s laid the foundation to a wrinkle or two.

jake, who remained all cool composure and perfect posture, grabbed at your elbow just as you were about to successfully make your exit without the weight of any whispers.

“you’re going the wrong way,” he’d said as a matter of factly, as you blinked up at him with heavy lids and a death grip on your skirt hem.

“what?”

“the archives are east wing. you always cut through the courtyard after meetings,” he said simply. “you’ll get there faster through chapel halls.”

oh. right.

“thanks,” you swallowed thickly, pinching at your thigh in an attempt to get your head out the gutter. with a stiff nod from you and an awkward wave goodbye on his end, you were off.

your breaking point comes during the wretched dance lessons, on a wednesday evening where finals loom closer and your logistics duties seem never-ending. oh, how you detest the dance lessons — and jake by association.

it starts out like so: your hand in his, rain tapping against the windows, and your dance instructor trying her absolute best not to lose her mind. she barks orders and sighs like you two have managed to deplete her lifespan by half, yet you find yourself entirely consumed by the uncomfortable way your hand fits in jake’s.

“you’re both too stubborn to follow each other,” mrs. cho rubs at her temples. “start again.”

over the past 30 minutes, you’ve stepped on jake’ foot at least twelve times. thirteen if the sharp inhale that left him moments ago is anything to go by. yet every time you pull away, his rough hands tighten around your own as if to tell you to bear the rest of the session.

when you and the sim heir return to your starting positions, shoulders slumped and hands reluctantly entwined, the music stops and the shrill voice of your dance instructor echoes throughout the studio once more.

“shoulders straight!”

it’s safe to say that mrs. cho leaves the session 15 minutes early, claiming a bad headache.

your waltz lessons are a complete and utter disaster, to say the least.

.

.

.

during night patrols, the academy feels less like a place of learning and more like a mausoleum, because if the way shadows spill over the floors are anything to go by, the founders buried beneath the chapel crypts might as well have been wandering the halls themselves.

with every step you make, the vintage portraits that line the walls seem to watch you in suffocating silence. your leather shoes click against polished marble, and your flashlight flickers in your hands like all it wants to do is just give out.

jake, of course, scans over the ghostly hallways with practiced indifference, his own light shining bright enough to make you wince when he turns your way.

“the west wing is clear,” he murmurs absentmindedly, pursing his lips when your light decides to flicker shut for the final time. “. . . you need help with that?”

the moment his arms twitch like he’s about to reach out for you, you take a sharp step backwards, jamming the light into your palm multiple times before it flickers open once more. “i’ve got it – thanks.”

jake’s arms snap back to his sides, but you’re too preoccupied to notice the way he clears his throat and begins to fiddle with the cuff on his sleeves. your mind is somewhere else entirely, nestled within the the confines of the north tower that you’ve been unable to access since your move to the north wing.

you wonder, albeit aimlessly, if jiwoo’s final moments sit behind those walls waiting for you. wanting to finally tell the truth.

“we still need to check the chapel halls and –”

“i’ll cover the east,” you say quickly, remaining resolute when jake stops in his tracks a couple steps ahead of you. “we’d be finished in half the time it would take the two of us to patrol those areas together.”

usually, this is where he’d feel compelled to argue. he’d throw some sarcastic remark your way and insist on sticking together as per bitter old yoon’s orders, and you’d glare right back but proceed together anyway.

except, this time is different. some sort of distance lingers between you two that can’t quite attribute to coldness, just the quiet hesitance that comes over two people that have come to realize there are certain lines neither of you can uncross.

he stares at you for a beat too long, before he tears his eyes away from you and unto the winding hall that lies ahead of him.

“alright.”

that’s it.

your chest tightens unexpectedly.

“meet me back here in 20?” you offer, and jake is already walking away by the time the words leave you.

“sure.” he says, and with that, you’re off before he can even begin to witness the guilt that creeps beneath your skin.

with your pulse hammering in your ears, you let your feet take you as far as they can up endless staircases and endless corridors. the higher you climb, the colder the air becomes, and you find yourself wondering about the sick turns of fate that led jiwoo up there on a winter night in the first place.

was she as cold as you are now, if not worse?

god, you hope not.

you carry on anyways, past the dust that gathered between old stone railings and the sharp howl of the wind that shake the windows lining the landings. solstice groans around you like a living beast settling into a deep slumber, and yet you cannot find it in you to stop moving. 

not now, not when you’ve come so far.

when you reach the top floor absolutely winded, the big wooden entrance to the tower materializes in front of you as if daring you to make a move. you take one step, then two, before your shaky fingers finally come to curl around the knob and twist.

with a sharp click! and the approaching sound of footsteps from behind you, you come to realize two things:

the door is locked. of course it’s locked. why wouldn’t it be, when this place was a crime scene a little less than a year ago? since jiwoo’s murder, the tower has been subsequently closed to students and faculty alike, and you were a fool to ever believe this door would be open for you upon arrival.

second, and most urgently, is that you’re about to get yourself caught. now. without a second to spare, your hands snap back to your sides and you’re bracing yourself for the worst. your pulse sounds heavily as the footsteps come to a halt behind you, and then –

“you students really enjoy making my life difficult,” a gruff voice echoes from behind you, and you whip your head around to come face to face with your new company.

your knees almost buckle in relief, because whoever stood in front of you now was no student, nor were they security. you have half the mind to thank the stars that you weren’t cursed with a repeat of your first encounter with sunoo outside the library archives, because instead, an elderly janitor stands just head of you with his hands on his hips.

“i was just patrolling, sir,” you explain cooly, and the elder’s eyes come to rest on the silver brooch pinned to your chest – a symbol of your seat within the council.

“this area has been closed for months,” he says slowly, glancing between you and the locked door to the tower. “this is a restricted area.”

“i got lost,” you chuckle insincerely, a hand coming up to rub at your neck when the older man’s frown deepens. “i moved here just this year.”

a beat passes, then another, and the wind rattles violently against the stained glass overhead. the old janitor studies you for a long moment before he groans, rubbing at his face with a tired hand.

“you council students are all the same,” he grumbles, but you find yourself preoccupied by a glint from the corner of your eyes. “too much curiosity.”

your eyes flick downward instinctively, and it’s as if a wildfire has begun in your chest when you catch sight of the ring of rusty metal keys hung on his belt. there are dozens of them, and one sits noticeably larger than the others.

you apologize quietly, but your mind has been elsewhere since the moment the glint of the metal caught your eye. after all, you’re willing to bet that key is your ticket into the north tower and any secrets you may find within.

you need to get that key.

.

.

.

the next morning arrives all grey and miserable, and you let yourself hope, albeit for one measly second, that your new ta will forego coming to class today.

not that your prayers come to fruition, because lo and behold, the man strides in the moment you let your shoulders sag by just a fraction. sharp-faced and imposing, professor jung is every bit of the terror teacher that elites and scholarship students alike make him out to be.

if there was one thing you hadn’t lied about during your last conversation with the kim group heir, it was that your substitute professor personally went out of his way to make all of your lives a whole lot more difficult. not out of some noble yet slightly twisted desire to push students towards excellence, either — jung liked to humiliate. to bruise.

and as if advanced calculus at eight in the morning wasn’t enough psychological warfare, the little man is downright irritating.

“phones in the bin,” he says flatly, setting his leather briefcase down with a dull thud. “if i see one, you can all kiss your participation grades goodbye.”

your eye twitches. collective outrage fills the room, and your deskmate physically recoils from beside you.

speaking of your deskmate, lee heeseung hasn’t strolled in late to this class since professor jung walked in and announced himself in charge as replacement for your previous professor’s maternity leave. which, to be frank, should be enough to terrify anybody who knows your deskmate.

including you.

you glance sideways one, then twice, but you’re met with the same miserable sight every time. because from the way dark circles pool at the skin beneath heeseung’s eyes, and the pristine uniform collar he usually has neatly pressed and folded has since fallen into a half-folded mess of wrinkled cotton, it’s pretty darn obvious that professor jung has been making his life a living hell too.

when your desk mate’s half-lidded gaze meets yours as if having sensed the intrusion on your end, you snap your head away towards the front of the room where jung has begun to write a plethora of symbols and numbers you aren’t quite sure you can keep up with.

from then on, your 45 minute lecture goes by like a prison sentence carved out in chalk dust and misery. between your substitute professor confiscating three burner phones within the next fifteen minutes and stopping mid-equation to stare down an athlete who’d fallen asleep in the third row, you’d mentally checked out whatever he’d been trying to explain.

nobody escapes him. not the elites, and definitely not scholarship. and for the first time in solstice history, a class has seemingly united under the heat of one, singular teaching assistant from the depths of hell.

“you,” he says suddenly, pointing at heeseung who suddenly straightens in his seat beside you. “finish the proof.”

a quiet murmur spreads throughout the room, because unfortunately for jung’s sadistic tendencies, lee heeseung is brilliant.

he’s briliant in the loud, showy way that most solstice students are, but heeseung sits at the very top at the hierarchy with the rest of his glamorous friend group simply because he shines brighter than all else without trying. he rises from his seat without complaint, cutting across the room towards the board as he rolls the sleeves of his uniform shirt higher up his forearms.

the proof that unravels beneath the chalk in his hands is beautiful. your classmates seem to have been enveloped in a sort of collective awe, and even you sit up straighter in your seat as line after line of a perfectly executed solution fills the board in quick succession.

“sexy,” you hear a girl whisper to her friend from behind you, and you chew your lip to keep yourself from snorting.

when heeseung finally sets the chalk down, a heavy silence falls under the classroom. jung steps up to study the proof for a long moment, and then –

“sloppy.”

heeseung blinks once, then twice, like he genuinely misheard. even you have to bite your tongue lest you let your jaw drop to the ground, because objectively speaking, his solution had been perfect. “pardon?”

“you skipped the intermediary steps,” jung tuts, already reaching for the eraser. “take your seat, boy.”

something flashes behind heeseung’s eyes then, and it’s annoyance nor humiliation, but pride. professor jung had challenged him publicly, and you deign to think about a rich heir’s opinion on being made to look small.

you almost cringe, and the real estate heir takes his seat beside you stiffly.

the rest of your first period goes by in an exhausting haze of terror and hopelessness, and your clasesmates practically flee the lecture hall by the end of it. you shove your things into your book bag with a little less gracefulness than your dance instructor would’ve hoped, and then you’re on your way too.

that is, until a hand comes to clamp around your wrist and you’re tugged backwards into a narrow alcove tucked between two towering bookcases . . . and pushed up against lee heeseung’s built chest.

the movement leaves you forcefully trapped between cold stone and warm uniform fabric, and unfortunately for your throbbing headache, heeseung is entirely too close.

you open your mouth to argue, but his hand comes up to clamp lightly over your mouth while another snakes over your form in an effort to keep you still.

“heeseung –” you hiss, but your voice is muffled by the flesh of his palm. he only holds you even tighter against him like that’ll put a stop to your incessant squirming. “what are you –”

“will you shut up for a sec?” he whispers harshly against the shell of your ear, and your glare sharpens against his palm. heeseung ignores you entirely like you arent pulled flush against his own body.

and you think, just for a moment, about where in god’s name could he have gotten all this natural strength from. competitive fencing can only do so much.

“listen,” he says, quieter this time. and as much as you want to kick him in the shin and go about your day, your wretched curiosity takes the reigns and you do. outside the alcove, footsteps echo throughout the corridor and render the two of you silent.

your breath catches, and then, you hear it: the echo of profesor jung’s flat voice floats towards you and the two of you go still.

“. . . tonight. eleven o’ clock.”

through the narrow gap between shelves, you’re almost abe to catch sight of your ta standing just outside the faculty office with his phone pressed up against his ear. his expression, usually all clipped irritation and pursed lips, has gone eerily tense. suspiciously so.

another voice crackles over the speaker, but it’s too weak and too muffled for you to make out.

“no,” jung answers sharply, and you can feel heesueng’s grip instinctively tighten around you more than you thought possible. “nobody can know about us.”

a pause follows, and rain drums harder against the stained-glass window overhead. you can practically feel heeseung’s heart beating louder in his chest with every passing second, and it’s both a shock and a passing amusement to you, who hadn’t even been aware he possessed one.

he must really despise jung.

your ta lets out a hefty sigh. “meet me tonight by the outdoor chapel. we’ll talk then.”

the line disconnects, and for the longest minute of your life, neither you or heeseung dare to move. his hands are still hot and heavy on your person, and they only loosen and fall to his sides when professor jung retreats into the office with a sharp click.

when you whip your head around to face him, his own bulging eyes are already crashing into your own as a wild grin spreads across his face so quickly that it startles you.

“holy shit,” you say, and the words leave you before you can even begin to stop them. your desk mate laughs in response, and the sound is warm against the cold stone and the rain-kissed windows.

“you,” he starts, leaning in towards you in a manner that’s entirely way too close. even for you. “are going to help me get rid of jung.”

you frown. “why would i do that?”

you, in all your excruciating months at this academy, have cared much for the genius of a trainwreck that is lee heeseung. he is arrogant in the way most solstice heirs are. predictable in the way that shouldn’t have even made you look twice. and yet, heeseung becomes increasingly difficult to ignore.

he’s charming – too charming for his own good and entirely too talented at making sure everything he desires bends completely to his will. including you.

when you stare up at him flatly, pressing a hand to his chest to slowly shove him away, heeseung lets himself be moved with surprising ease. you take the opportunity to move past him without a word, and you're already a few steps away from him and on your merry way out of the alcove when heeseung says something that makes you stop in your tracks.

“because you want him gone as much as i do?” he offers, tilting his head in that innocent, downright mocking way that makes you want to hurl.

and the worst part is, he’s right. because after weeks of yoon’s brutal torment, your fight for evidence, and your council duties (with your mortal enemy) alone, you’re well aware that professor jung is another liability you are unable to shovel onto your plate.

but to rid him from this school and his job just because he’d proven to be annoying is new territory to you entirely. to ruin a professor – even one as irritating as jung – toes dangerously close to a line you dare not cross.

besides, you’ve learned from your dealings with sunoo that striking an agreement with an elite is basically making a deal with the devil. you’ve seen it happen. you’ve survived it yourself.

but this? ths would be cruel.

you tell yourself, with as much conviction as you are able to muster, that a professor with as big of a secret as jung is apparently hiding shouldn’t be anywhere near a teaching license, anyway. that someone willing to risk their position so recklessly must have something fundamentally wrong with them.

it should have been enough to make you walk away.

but within moments, you’re thrust back into the night you’d last attempted a break-in at the north tower and the way the keys jingled along that elderly janitor’s belt loop. you tell yourself thiis must be providence, because after all, sneaking around with lee heeseung after curfew meant another chance to snag that key.

and so you wrench your eyes shut, then exhale.

“. . . fine,”

slowly but surely, a wretched smile comes to bloom accross heeseung’s face.

“i knew you loved me.”

when you insult him and he laughs outright, the sound echoing throughout the alcove and down the crowded halls, you carefully step out of it together and back into the flow of the winding corridors. rain patters against the stained glass windows and trails down in silver rivulets as students travel in clusters of navy uniforms and polished shoes, voices hushed beneath vaulted ceilings like the academy itself demanded reverence.

you barely make it three steps into bickering with your desk mate when you feel a chill travel down the curve of your back, and you turn your head instinctively.

and right there, standing beneath the curve of an opposite archway, is kim sunoo, and the expression on his face is so subtle that most people would miss it entirely. except you aren’t most people, especially not to sunoo.

he’s aways been beautiful in a deliberate sort of way – every smile and intentional bat of his eyes specifically crafted to wound like a weapon draped in silk. but now, something quiet looms over his delicate features as his eyes flick between the distance between you and his friend . . . or lack thereof.

and for once, sunoo does not smile.

.

.

.

when lunch arrives, the awful weather does not give way. if anything, the stormclouds hang lower and streak the windows with even more breathtaking silvers of rain, but none of it does anything at all to silence the usual hum of the dining hall.

all polished chaos and porcelain clinking against cutlery, students laugh a little too loudly beneath vaulted ceilings and portraits of school founders that remain immortalized in oil in a manner that resembles the saints.

at the center table, however, the atmosphere shifts the moment lee heeseung drops into his seat with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up high, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

seated diagonal to him is jake sim, diligently working through founder’s week documents with a silent precision. his coffee sits as cold and untouched as the rain that envelopes campus, and sunghoon sits next to him quietly flipping through fencing notes as ni-ki complains about an economics test that nobody believes he studied for.

sunoo looks over at the new arrival through the rim of his glass, slowly and carefully like he’s trying to appear as if he isn’t watching at all. unfortunately, everyone seated at the table knows each other too well to write him off.

jungwon is the first to collapse under the weight of unspoken tension, setting his fork down and sighing. “oh, brother.”

“did you have a productive morning?” sunoo drawls, leaning back in his seat across from heeseung and catching the attention of a few of the other friends seated at the table. even jay looks up from his workbook, brows raised as his gaze flickers between sunoo and heeseung.

heeseung’s lips twitch upwards into the ghost of a smile.

“productive enough,” he retorts, shoveling a portion of sea bass into his mouth. “jung’s classes hit you pretty hard.”

“mm, it didn’t look pretty academic to me,” the blonde jeers, twirling an expensive pen in his fingers as he tilts his head mockingly.

“did i miss something?” ni-ki mumbles.

“you know, usually when most people are jealous, they say it outright.” heeseung.

“i just think,” sunoo starts slowly, reaching down with his fork to stab at a potato on his lunch tray. “that sneaking around closed corridors is a pretty funny way to start the morning.”

“i’m sorry?” jake blinks from his seat, and sunghoon has already put his notes down in exchange for a front row seat to this untoward encounter.

“why thank you,” the oldest boy grins, leaning back in his seat with a lazy stretch of his long arms. “if it makes you feel better, she agreed to see me again tonight.”

riki chokes into his drink. jake stills, barely noticeable, but just enough for the paper in his hand to stop moving all together. after all, he’s well aware that there is only one woman in the entirety of this academy that could make sunoo act out in such a way.

and as for sunoo — his smile remains perfectly intact.

except this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

it’s finally here! feel free to lmk what you think about this chapter through comments or asks <3

taglist: @cutehoons02 @fancypeacepersona @deluluscenarios @letwiiparkjay @ikeugirly @stormy1408 @rairaiblog @kristynaaah @xoenhalover @nodoubtily @cyb3rto4st @simpikeu @tmtxtf @leaderwons @bvbblyjasmine @blooqz @keilaeszz @rikis-wifey910 @elviransworld @paigexoxo1660 @en-stellar @zoe1love @angelagarvi @lunac01 @lunaryoongie @daisydolphinn @nowayhomeboo @kyunlov @fuckthinking @jellymiki

so when you close your eyes, you can almost feel it: the slight sheen of sweat that clung to your neck inside that clammy photobooth, the faint sound of jazz seeping in from beyond the curtains, and the incessant thrum of your beating heart. and most important of all –

the wrong that had settled into your gut as jake’s eyes bore into your own, searching you up and down for any semblance of mercy for his own actions.

it had been desperate. almost reverent. just enough to keep you awake most nights like you hadn’t already been tossing and turning in your sheets upon your enrollment to this cursed institution. and so when the clock hits four in the morning, you’re on your feet and out of the dorm, careful not to make so much as a peep as you slip past the oak doors and into the morning air. your mug is gone and so is your bookbag, yet your weighty presence lingers on inside like a stubborn perfume anyway.

you like to think your intentional absence doesn’t matter anyhow. at least, not to jake.

but if the bags under your eyes and way you and your roommate have returned to avoiding each other entirely are anything to go by, your little impromptu outing last weekend has left quite the stain on you instead.

and to think that it’s jake sim who has you lying awake in bed at night makes you want to curl into a ball of self loathing and —

“hey,” sunoo whispers evenly, long lashes fluttering at you as he blinks on from across the mahogany table of one of the many, many libraries that litter campus. “what’s wrong with you?”

you blink back, just as confused and twice as exhausted, scrambling to cook up an excuse that doesn’t involve your new living arrangement.

“nothing,” you say, a little too quickly this time as your fingers tighten around your mechanical pencil as though it might steady you. another hand comes up to rub at your heavy lids, pressing hard enough to itch away the sting. “there’s this new ta on everyone’s ass.”

a harmless half-truth. one that sounds flimsier the moment it leaves you.

still, with finals coming up like a slow and inevitable storm, you let yourself bear the slightest of hopes that sunoo won’t see past your lame fib.

“alright,” he hums, and it’s too measured; too careful.

“must be an awful guy,” the blonde drawls, leaning back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world for you alone, eyes fixed on your own like you’re the most interesting thing in the room.

and god, you loathe the way heat starts to curl up your neck.

somewhere along the way, upon forming your strange and precarious alliance with kim sunoo, you convinced yourself that lying would come easy. that it would slip naturally off the tongue like something justified. necessary, even.

and it had been, until now. because as his eyes drift from your vice grip on your beat-up pencil, to the way your jaw ticks, then to your own shaky orbs, you can’t find it in yourself to look back in defiance.

when you finally snap away from his gaze, you know you’ve been caught in a lie. and for a moment, the room lulls.

“should i get rid of him?” he asks, smiling. almost teasing. it’s soft, sweet, and entirely wrong, because you know he’d do it in a heartbeat if you did so much as nod yes.

your stomach drops, and for half a second, you’re back in that photobooth.

“you mean,“ you guffaw, but the words catch in your mouth as the realization settles. “the ta?”

sunoo tilts his head, blinking innocently. “who else?”

you huff, shaking your head like it’ll brush it off, but your grip on the pencil doesn’t loosen. to think of it, when was the last time you’d actually written anything? your head practically burns when you try to recall a time where you’d been unoccupied by the constant reminder of finals, council duties, and —

“oh fuck,” you gasp, standing so abruptly that your chair screeches as you stand. when the heads of poor, unsuspecting students whose only desires are to study for finals in peace snap towards you, you’re too frazzled to pay them any mind. “i gotta go.”

“what?” sunoo blinks, a flicker of genuine surprise dancing in his eyes for the first time this morning. ”so soon?”

“yeah, i forgot all about this meeting with yoon,” you heave, messily gathering your things and shoving them in your book back without sparing much attention to the way your papers fold and crinkle. “i better run over there before he lectures me about how hierarchy is maintained by conduct again.”

“but —“

you barely managed a rushed “i’ll see you!” before you’re scrambling on your feet and out the door, the irritated eyes of caffeinated students following you until you disappear into the hallways.

and sunoo, as always, would stay exactly where he was — composed, untouched, and above it all. because if you knew anything about him at all, you’d think he reveled in the pressure that yoon and the higher-ups liked to weigh upon your shoulders.

except you can practically feel his eyes burning into the curve of your back, and the hairs on your neck have basically begun to stand on their own.

you’re not sure what to make of it. in fact, you’re not sure what to make of anything anymore.

.

.

.

upon your return from your little excursion, jake has come to realize two things:

the first being that he’s gained an unusual partiality to taking photobooth pictures. if the feel of the smooth, glossy film in between his fingers and the way the sheen catches the light are anything to go by, you might as well have considered him hooked.

second, and quite frankly the most troubling for reasons he can’t quite place, is that you are clearly, most definitely avoiding him.

which shouldn’t be much of an issue at all, really, for two individuals who have been at each other’s throats since day one. it shouldn’t matter, not when one night shouldn’t be enough to shift into anything real.

except it is — and he cannot, for the life of him, seem to understand why.

the council room stretches around him, all tall windows and heavy chandeliers coating polished floors in their warmth. the long oak table lined woth high-backed chairs stretches across the center like a declaration of power, and jake finds that this place is quiet.

too quiet.

that is, until you’re bursting through the doors and yoon (read: who jake forgot was even present,) is jolting up furiously from across his wooden seat.

you, who’s slightly out of breath, hair disheveled just enough to tell him how much the day has weighed on you.

you, whose bag is practically sliding off your shoulders by the time you rush to take your seat beside him.

your chest rises and falls with every passing second, eyes sweeping across the room before they land on him for a moment too long before they're gone like they’d never been on him in the first place.

jake straightens in his seat, practically instinctive from the way his fingers curl around the arm rest. yoon tuts.

“late,” the older man scowls, and the words cut through the air like a fencing blade. you almost flinch, and jake winces when he’s granted the displeasure of noticing.

dorm master yoon stands imposingly at the head of the table, pocketing a silver pocket watch and expression carved from something cold and awfully cruel by the way he looks at you. or more specifically, the silver pin that gleams above your heart.

“i do hope your morning was productive enough to justify your absence from council duties,” he continues, voice clipped.

“it was, sir,” you say immediately, spine turning rigid when your dorm master snaps his head towards you. “i — i lost track of time.”

“time?” yoon repeats after you, steam practically coming from his head at how furious you’ve managed to make him. “i’ll have you know that hierarchy in this academy is maintained by — !“

“i sent her,” jake cuts in, and the words are clean. measured. they echo throughout the vastness of the council room like a simple truth, even when they are anything but. jake doesn’t even look at you when he says it, and for a second, the entire place stills.

your dorm master, still equally as enraged, turns to look at you with a disbelieving frown. “is this true?”

with your heart still pounding from the run, you can barely even open your mouth to speak when jake beats you to it.

“i needed documents from the archives,” he continues calmly, fingers lacing together on the table. “they weren’t where i needed them to be.”

a blatant lie.

you can hardly keep your jaw from dropping as yoon studies him for a long moment, expression tight as if he’s weighing whether or not to press further. and then –

“very well,” the bitter old man grunts. “see to it that your tasks are accounted for next time.”

“yes, sir,” you reply stiffly, and your words come out quieter this time around.

one beat passes, then another, before yoon is exhaling through his nose and adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. you think the movement alone is enough to feel dismissive. but then again, everything about the man does.

you find yourself wondering for a moment whether he gives other members of the council like yang jungwon half as much shit. altough the thought subsides when you realize that in complete fairness, it’s not as if you have a political dynasty for a bloodline like your classmate does.

“founder’s week is not simply another one of this academy’s self-indulgent traditions,” yoon begins sharply, shoes clacking on the polished floors before he comes to a stop beside a tall window. “it is tradition.”

you resist the urge to roll your eyes, and if jake feels the same, he certainly doesn’t show it.

“to commemorate the establishment of solstice academy through the graciousness of its generous donors, the students of your year and a select few talents from the lower pool are given a week to mingle amongst the country’s most elite,” yoon continues, and the morning light cuts at the sharp lines of his face. “meaning investors are present. politicians. alumni from the four corners of the world. founder’s week is where futures are decided, and this council oversees every aspect of it.”

jake’s fingers, which previously came down to tap at the arm rests have come to a halt.

you on the other hand, feel your exhaustion deepen tenfold.

when yoon approaches the mahogany table to set a thick folder down hard enough to make you jump in your seat, you pray your roommate doesn’t notice.

“sim,” he tuts, “you will oversee sponsorships and that security coordination with the parks go smoothly.”

“understood,” jake hums, nodding once like he’s already grown bored of the conversation.

“and you,” yoon sighs, craning his head to stare down at you like you’re scum on the floor. “you will manage logistics, media preparation, and see to it that our guests are tended to at every moment.”

your eye twitches. “of course.”

just when you think this new onslaught of council duties can’t possibly, get any worse, they do.

“as for the two of you jointly,” yoon drawls on, completely indifferent to the visible despair that creeps over your features. “you will supervise ballroom preparation and the opening ceremony.”

the room stills.

“. . . the opening ceremony?” jake frowns, and yoon sends him a look like the message should’ve been obvious.

“the first dance, of course,” he continues coolly, like you two were the crazy ones for not wanting to believe that such a silly tradition could’ve found itself nestled in this year’s festivities. “tradition states that the student council representatives open up the floor before the rest of the guests are permitted to partake.”

“pardon?” you choke, and you don’t miss the way jake’s hands ball into fists next to you. “will all due respect, i don’t think that’s –”

“you, of course, would need dance lessons,” yoon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a neatly gloved hand. “talk to miss lee down at reception by the end of this week. she should have accommodations for the two of you then.”

jake blinks. “the two of us?”

“the two of you,” old man yoon reaffirms, sterner this time. jake looks like he’s swallowed a rag whole. “can i trust that you will conduct yourselves in a manner that suits the best interests of our proud institution?”

for one slow and agonizing second, silence reigns over your resolve — not that you have much of that left.

rain taps softly against the tall glass of the windows, and the chapel bells toll distantly from somewhere far away from the north wing where you sit. the sound is haunting enough to sink beneath your skin and echo in your head, and from beside you, jake clears his throat.

“of course,” he replies, voice clipped. “you have my word.”

you swear you could groan in exasperation when yoon’s gaze drifts towards you expectedly.

“mine as well, sir.”

and in that moment, you decide that you detest it all; the strange heat that seems to climb up your neck as of late. the way that jake sim always seems so close despite standing a few feet away at all times. the fact the somewhere in between shameless bribery and arguments beneath stairwells and atop wooden docks, jake has become infuriatingly easy to exist beside.

you hate it all, and most of all, you hate him. so much so, that when you look up next you realize you hadn’t noticed that the council room had already emptied entirely until only you and jake remained at the helm.

chandeliers hum overhead, and somewhere outside, wind rattles against stained windows and ivy-covered walls.

your mouth begins to run before you can stop yourself.

“you didn’t have to lie for me,” you begin defeatedly, standing up to shovel papers into your satchel more aggressively than necessary.

“i didn’t lie,” jake retorts, glancing up slowly from where he’s adjusting his tie like he’s suddenly found it hard to breathe. “i improvised.”

was it always so hot in here?

your eye twitches. “that’s literally lying.”

now it’s jake’s turn to eye you wordlessly, and unexplainable fury reignites in your chest when the corners of his mouth twitch.

“you’re welcome, by the way.”

despite yourself, the memory of the jazz bar flashes embarrassingly fast through your head — red lights, vintage vinyl, and jake’s laugh vibrating low enough to settle in your chest. you push the thought away as fast as it came to you

your grip tightens around your bag strap, and without another word, your roommate is headed off to god-knows where.

though, not before he makes one final stop by the doorway.

“sleep more,” he says quietly, though his words come out more like a plea than a command from the way his shoulders square like he’s embarrassed to even be saying this. “i can hear you shuffle around in the common room at night, you know.”

you stand there long after he’s gone.

after the incident in the council room, you wish you could say that was the end of it.

or at least, it should've been — neatly tucked away into the growing box of shared secrets you’ve racked up with jake sim. except afterwards, he and his infuriating actions begin to grow on you like fungus.

it starts small: with a cup of coffee that materializes at the common room’s dining table when you snap awake from a particularly rigorous study session. no note, and still warm by the time you take notice. you spend ten whole minutes glowering at it before deciding to drink it anyway.

then came the incident in the courtyard.

he’d caught you cutting through the quad once, all tired eyes and heavy frowns that run so deep you’re sure it’s laid the foundation to a wrinkle or two.

jake, who remained all cool composure and perfect posture, grabbed at your elbow just as you were about to successfully make your exit without the weight of any whispers.

“you’re going the wrong way,” he’d said as a matter of factly, as you blinked up at him with heavy lids and a death grip on your skirt hem.

“what?”

“the archives are east wing. you always cut through the courtyard after meetings,” he said simply. “you’ll get there faster through chapel halls.”

oh. right.

“thanks,” you swallowed thickly, pinching at your thigh in an attempt to get your head out the gutter. with a stiff nod from you and an awkward wave goodbye on his end, you were off.

your breaking point comes during the wretched dance lessons, on a wednesday evening where finals loom closer and your logistics duties seem never-ending. oh, how you detest the dance lessons — and jake by association.

it starts out like so: your hand in his, rain tapping against the windows, and your dance instructor trying her absolute best not to lose her mind. she barks orders and sighs like you two have managed to deplete her lifespan by half, yet you find yourself entirely consumed by the uncomfortable way your hand fits in jake’s.

“you’re both too stubborn to follow each other,” mrs. cho rubs at her temples. “start again.”

over the past 30 minutes, you’ve stepped on jake’ foot at least twelve times. thirteen if the sharp inhale that left him moments ago is anything to go by. yet every time you pull away, his rough hands tighten around your own as if to tell you to bear the rest of the session.

when you and the sim heir return to your starting positions, shoulders slumped and hands reluctantly entwined, the music stops and the shrill voice of your dance instructor echoes throughout the studio once more.

“shoulders straight!”

it’s safe to say that mrs. cho leaves the session 15 minutes early, claiming a bad headache.

your waltz lessons are a complete and utter disaster, to say the least.

.

.

.

during night patrols, the academy feels less like a place of learning and more like a mausoleum, because if the way shadows spill over the floors are anything to go by, the founders buried beneath the chapel crypts might as well have been wandering the halls themselves.

with every step you make, the vintage portraits that line the walls seem to watch you in suffocating silence. your leather shoes click against polished marble, and your flashlight flickers in your hands like all it wants to do is just give out.

jake, of course, scans over the ghostly hallways with practiced indifference, his own light shining bright enough to make you wince when he turns your way.

“the west wing is clear,” he murmurs absentmindedly, pursing his lips when your light decides to flicker shut for the final time. “. . . you need help with that?”

the moment his arms twitch like he’s about to reach out for you, you take a sharp step backwards, jamming the light into your palm multiple times before it flickers open once more. “i’ve got it – thanks.”

jake’s arms snap back to his sides, but you’re too preoccupied to notice the way he clears his throat and begins to fiddle with the cuff on his sleeves. your mind is somewhere else entirely, nestled within the the confines of the north tower that you’ve been unable to access since your move to the north wing.

you wonder, albeit aimlessly, if jiwoo’s final moments sit behind those walls waiting for you. wanting to finally tell the truth.

“we still need to check the chapel halls and –”

“i’ll cover the east,” you say quickly, remaining resolute when jake stops in his tracks a couple steps ahead of you. “we’d be finished in half the time it would take the two of us to patrol those areas together.”

usually, this is where he’d feel compelled to argue. he’d throw some sarcastic remark your way and insist on sticking together as per bitter old yoon’s orders, and you’d glare right back but proceed together anyway.

except, this time is different. some sort of distance lingers between you two that can’t quite attribute to coldness, just the quiet hesitance that comes over two people that have come to realize there are certain lines neither of you can uncross.

he stares at you for a beat too long, before he tears his eyes away from you and unto the winding hall that lies ahead of him.

“alright.”

that’s it.

your chest tightens unexpectedly.

“meet me back here in 20?” you offer, and jake is already walking away by the time the words leave you.

“sure.” he says, and with that, you’re off before he can even begin to witness the guilt that creeps beneath your skin.

with your pulse hammering in your ears, you let your feet take you as far as they can up endless staircases and endless corridors. the higher you climb, the colder the air becomes, and you find yourself wondering about the sick turns of fate that led jiwoo up there on a winter night in the first place.

was she as cold as you are now, if not worse?

god, you hope not.

you carry on anyways, past the dust that gathered between old stone railings and the sharp howl of the wind that shake the windows lining the landings. solstice groans around you like a living beast settling into a deep slumber, and yet you cannot find it in you to stop moving. 

not now, not when you’ve come so far.

when you reach the top floor absolutely winded, the big wooden entrance to the tower materializes in front of you as if daring you to make a move. you take one step, then two, before your shaky fingers finally come to curl around the knob and twist.

with a sharp click! and the approaching sound of footsteps from behind you, you come to realize two things:

the door is locked. of course it’s locked. why wouldn’t it be, when this place was a crime scene a little less than a year ago? since jiwoo’s murder, the tower has been subsequently closed to students and faculty alike, and you were a fool to ever believe this door would be open for you upon arrival.

second, and most urgently, is that you’re about to get yourself caught. now. without a second to spare, your hands snap back to your sides and you’re bracing yourself for the worst. your pulse sounds heavily as the footsteps come to a halt behind you, and then –

“you students really enjoy making my life difficult,” a gruff voice echoes from behind you, and you whip your head around to come face to face with your new company.

your knees almost buckle in relief, because whoever stood in front of you now was no student, nor were they security. you have half the mind to thank the stars that you weren’t cursed with a repeat of your first encounter with sunoo outside the library archives, because instead, an elderly janitor stands just head of you with his hands on his hips.

“i was just patrolling, sir,” you explain cooly, and the elder’s eyes come to rest on the silver brooch pinned to your chest – a symbol of your seat within the council.

“this area has been closed for months,” he says slowly, glancing between you and the locked door to the tower. “this is a restricted area.”

“i got lost,” you chuckle insincerely, a hand coming up to rub at your neck when the older man’s frown deepens. “i moved here just this year.”

a beat passes, then another, and the wind rattles violently against the stained glass overhead. the old janitor studies you for a long moment before he groans, rubbing at his face with a tired hand.

“you council students are all the same,” he grumbles, but you find yourself preoccupied by a glint from the corner of your eyes. “too much curiosity.”

your eyes flick downward instinctively, and it’s as if a wildfire has begun in your chest when you catch sight of the ring of rusty metal keys hung on his belt. there are dozens of them, and one sits noticeably larger than the others.

you apologize quietly, but your mind has been elsewhere since the moment the glint of the metal caught your eye. after all, you’re willing to bet that key is your ticket into the north tower and any secrets you may find within.

you need to get that key.

.

.

.

the next morning arrives all grey and miserable, and you let yourself hope, albeit for one measly second, that your new ta will forego coming to class today.

not that your prayers come to fruition, because lo and behold, the man strides in the moment you let your shoulders sag by just a fraction. sharp-faced and imposing, professor jung is every bit of the terror teacher that elites and scholarship students alike make him out to be.

if there was one thing you hadn’t lied about during your last conversation with the kim group heir, it was that your substitute professor personally went out of his way to make all of your lives a whole lot more difficult. not out of some noble yet slightly twisted desire to push students towards excellence, either — jung liked to humiliate. to bruise.

and as if advanced calculus at eight in the morning wasn’t enough psychological warfare, the little man is downright irritating.

“phones in the bin,” he says flatly, setting his leather briefcase down with a dull thud. “if i see one, you can all kiss your participation grades goodbye.”

your eye twitches. collective outrage fills the room, and your deskmate physically recoils from beside you.

speaking of your deskmate, lee heeseung hasn’t strolled in late to this class since professor jung walked in and announced himself in charge as replacement for your previous professor’s maternity leave. which, to be frank, should be enough to terrify anybody who knows your deskmate.

including you.

you glance sideways one, then twice, but you’re met with the same miserable sight every time. because from the way dark circles pool at the skin beneath heeseung’s eyes, and the pristine uniform collar he usually has neatly pressed and folded has since fallen into a half-folded mess of wrinkled cotton, it’s pretty darn obvious that professor jung has been making his life a living hell too.

when your desk mate’s half-lidded gaze meets yours as if having sensed the intrusion on your end, you snap your head away towards the front of the room where jung has begun to write a plethora of symbols and numbers you aren’t quite sure you can keep up with.

from then on, your 45 minute lecture goes by like a prison sentence carved out in chalk dust and misery. between your substitute professor confiscating three burner phones within the next fifteen minutes and stopping mid-equation to stare down an athlete who’d fallen asleep in the third row, you’d mentally checked out whatever he’d been trying to explain.

nobody escapes him. not the elites, and definitely not scholarship. and for the first time in solstice history, a class has seemingly united under the heat of one, singular teaching assistant from the depths of hell.

“you,” he says suddenly, pointing at heeseung who suddenly straightens in his seat beside you. “finish the proof.”

a quiet murmur spreads throughout the room, because unfortunately for jung’s sadistic tendencies, lee heeseung is brilliant.

he’s briliant in the loud, showy way that most solstice students are, but heeseung sits at the very top at the hierarchy with the rest of his glamorous friend group simply because he shines brighter than all else without trying. he rises from his seat without complaint, cutting across the room towards the board as he rolls the sleeves of his uniform shirt higher up his forearms.

the proof that unravels beneath the chalk in his hands is beautiful. your classmates seem to have been enveloped in a sort of collective awe, and even you sit up straighter in your seat as line after line of a perfectly executed solution fills the board in quick succession.

“sexy,” you hear a girl whisper to her friend from behind you, and you chew your lip to keep yourself from snorting.

when heeseung finally sets the chalk down, a heavy silence falls under the classroom. jung steps up to study the proof for a long moment, and then –

“sloppy.”

heeseung blinks once, then twice, like he genuinely misheard. even you have to bite your tongue lest you let your jaw drop to the ground, because objectively speaking, his solution had been perfect. “pardon?”

“you skipped the intermediary steps,” jung tuts, already reaching for the eraser. “take your seat, boy.”

something flashes behind heeseung’s eyes then, and it’s annoyance nor humiliation, but pride. professor jung had challenged him publicly, and you deign to think about a rich heir’s opinion on being made to look small.

you almost cringe, and the real estate heir takes his seat beside you stiffly.

the rest of your first period goes by in an exhausting haze of terror and hopelessness, and your clasesmates practically flee the lecture hall by the end of it. you shove your things into your book bag with a little less gracefulness than your dance instructor would’ve hoped, and then you’re on your way too.

that is, until a hand comes to clamp around your wrist and you’re tugged backwards into a narrow alcove tucked between two towering bookcases . . . and pushed up against lee heeseung’s built chest.

the movement leaves you forcefully trapped between cold stone and warm uniform fabric, and unfortunately for your throbbing headache, heeseung is entirely too close.

you open your mouth to argue, but his hand comes up to clamp lightly over your mouth while another snakes over your form in an effort to keep you still.

“heeseung –” you hiss, but your voice is muffled by the flesh of his palm. he only holds you even tighter against him like that’ll put a stop to your incessant squirming. “what are you –”

“will you shut up for a sec?” he whispers harshly against the shell of your ear, and your glare sharpens against his palm. heeseung ignores you entirely like you arent pulled flush against his own body.

and you think, just for a moment, about where in god’s name could he have gotten all this natural strength from. competitive fencing can only do so much.

“listen,” he says, quieter this time. and as much as you want to kick him in the shin and go about your day, your wretched curiosity takes the reigns and you do. outside the alcove, footsteps echo throughout the corridor and render the two of you silent.

your breath catches, and then, you hear it: the echo of profesor jung’s flat voice floats towards you and the two of you go still.

“. . . tonight. eleven o’ clock.”

through the narrow gap between shelves, you’re almost abe to catch sight of your ta standing just outside the faculty office with his phone pressed up against his ear. his expression, usually all clipped irritation and pursed lips, has gone eerily tense. suspiciously so.

another voice crackles over the speaker, but it’s too weak and too muffled for you to make out.

“no,” jung answers sharply, and you can feel heesueng’s grip instinctively tighten around you more than you thought possible. “nobody can know about us.”

a pause follows, and rain drums harder against the stained-glass window overhead. you can practically feel heeseung’s heart beating louder in his chest with every passing second, and it’s both a shock and a passing amusement to you, who hadn’t even been aware he possessed one.

he must really despise jung.

your ta lets out a hefty sigh. “meet me tonight by the outdoor chapel. we’ll talk then.”

the line disconnects, and for the longest minute of your life, neither you or heeseung dare to move. his hands are still hot and heavy on your person, and they only loosen and fall to his sides when professor jung retreats into the office with a sharp click.

when you whip your head around to face him, his own bulging eyes are already crashing into your own as a wild grin spreads across his face so quickly that it startles you.

“holy shit,” you say, and the words leave you before you can even begin to stop them. your desk mate laughs in response, and the sound is warm against the cold stone and the rain-kissed windows.

“you,” he starts, leaning in towards you in a manner that’s entirely way too close. even for you. “are going to help me get rid of jung.”

you frown. “why would i do that?”

you, in all your excruciating months at this academy, have cared much for the genius of a trainwreck that is lee heeseung. he is arrogant in the way most solstice heirs are. predictable in the way that shouldn’t have even made you look twice. and yet, heeseung becomes increasingly difficult to ignore.

he’s charming – too charming for his own good and entirely too talented at making sure everything he desires bends completely to his will. including you.

when you stare up at him flatly, pressing a hand to his chest to slowly shove him away, heeseung lets himself be moved with surprising ease. you take the opportunity to move past him without a word, and you're already a few steps away from him and on your merry way out of the alcove when heeseung says something that makes you stop in your tracks.

“because you want him gone as much as i do?” he offers, tilting his head in that innocent, downright mocking way that makes you want to hurl.

and the worst part is, he’s right. because after weeks of yoon’s brutal torment, your fight for evidence, and your council duties (with your mortal enemy) alone, you’re well aware that professor jung is another liability you are unable to shovel onto your plate.

but to rid him from this school and his job just because he’d proven to be annoying is new territory to you entirely. to ruin a professor – even one as irritating as jung – toes dangerously close to a line you dare not cross.

besides, you’ve learned from your dealings with sunoo that striking an agreement with an elite is basically making a deal with the devil. you’ve seen it happen. you’ve survived it yourself.

but this? ths would be cruel.

you tell yourself, with as much conviction as you are able to muster, that a professor with as big of a secret as jung is apparently hiding shouldn’t be anywhere near a teaching license, anyway. that someone willing to risk their position so recklessly must have something fundamentally wrong with them.

it should have been enough to make you walk away.

but within moments, you’re thrust back into the night you’d last attempted a break-in at the north tower and the way the keys jingled along that elderly janitor’s belt loop. you tell yourself thiis must be providence, because after all, sneaking around with lee heeseung after curfew meant another chance to snag that key.

and so you wrench your eyes shut, then exhale.

“. . . fine,”

slowly but surely, a wretched smile comes to bloom accross heeseung’s face.

“i knew you loved me.”

when you insult him and he laughs outright, the sound echoing throughout the alcove and down the crowded halls, you carefully step out of it together and back into the flow of the winding corridors. rain patters against the stained glass windows and trails down in silver rivulets as students travel in clusters of navy uniforms and polished shoes, voices hushed beneath vaulted ceilings like the academy itself demanded reverence.

you barely make it three steps into bickering with your desk mate when you feel a chill travel down the curve of your back, and you turn your head instinctively.

and right there, standing beneath the curve of an opposite archway, is kim sunoo, and the expression on his face is so subtle that most people would miss it entirely. except you aren’t most people, especially not to sunoo.

he’s aways been beautiful in a deliberate sort of way – every smile and intentional bat of his eyes specifically crafted to wound like a weapon draped in silk. but now, something quiet looms over his delicate features as his eyes flick between the distance between you and his friend . . . or lack thereof.

and for once, sunoo does not smile.

.

.

.

when lunch arrives, the awful weather does not give way. if anything, the stormclouds hang lower and streak the windows with even more breathtaking silvers of rain, but none of it does anything at all to silence the usual hum of the dining hall.

all polished chaos and porcelain clinking against cutlery, students laugh a little too loudly beneath vaulted ceilings and portraits of school founders that remain immortalized in oil in a manner that resembles the saints.

at the center table, however, the atmosphere shifts the moment lee heeseung drops into his seat with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up high, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

seated diagonal to him is jake sim, diligently working through founder’s week documents with a silent precision. his coffee sits as cold and untouched as the rain that envelopes campus, and sunghoon sits next to him quietly flipping through fencing notes as ni-ki complains about an economics test that nobody believes he studied for.

sunoo looks over at the new arrival through the rim of his glass, slowly and carefully like he’s trying to appear as if he isn’t watching at all. unfortunately, everyone seated at the table knows each other too well to write him off.

jungwon is the first to collapse under the weight of unspoken tension, setting his fork down and sighing. “oh, brother.”

“did you have a productive morning?” sunoo drawls, leaning back in his seat across from heeseung and catching the attention of a few of the other friends seated at the table. even jay looks up from his workbook, brows raised as his gaze flickers between sunoo and heeseung.

heeseung’s lips twitch upwards into the ghost of a smile.

“productive enough,” he retorts, shoveling a portion of sea bass into his mouth. “jung’s classes hit you pretty hard.”

“mm, it didn’t look pretty academic to me,” the blonde jeers, twirling an expensive pen in his fingers as he tilts his head mockingly.

“did i miss something?” ni-ki mumbles.

“you know, usually when most people are jealous, they say it outright.” heeseung.

“i just think,” sunoo starts slowly, reaching down with his fork to stab at a potato on his lunch tray. “that sneaking around closed corridors is a pretty funny way to start the morning.”

“i’m sorry?” jake blinks from his seat, and sunghoon has already put his notes down in exchange for a front row seat to this untoward encounter.

“why thank you,” the oldest boy grins, leaning back in his seat with a lazy stretch of his long arms. “if it makes you feel better, she agreed to see me again tonight.”

riki chokes into his drink. jake stills, barely noticeable, but just enough for the paper in his hand to stop moving all together. after all, he’s well aware that there is only one woman in the entirety of this academy that could make sunoo act out in such a way.

and as for sunoo — his smile remains perfectly intact.

except this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

it’s finally here! feel free to lmk what you think about this chapter through comments or asks <3

taglist: @cutehoons02 @fancypeacepersona @deluluscenarios @letwiiparkjay @ikeugirly @stormy1408 @rairaiblog @kristynaaah @xoenhalover @nodoubtily @cyb3rto4st @simpikeu @tmtxtf @leaderwons @bvbblyjasmine @blooqz @keilaeszz @rikis-wifey910 @elviransworld @paigexoxo1660 @en-stellar @zoe1love @angelagarvi @lunac01 @lunaryoongie @daisydolphinn @nowayhomeboo @kyunlov @fuckthinking @jellymiki

before the clandestine correspondence, the whispered meetings in the shadows of the imperial palace, and his weekly and scandalously unauthorized visits to your rooms in the dead of night, there were flames. 

they engulfed your royal ship, swallowing the screams of your loyal crew as they burned alive, their charred remains scattering into the cold winds of the night. the air was thick with the stench of smoke and sea salt, drowning out everything except for the cackling of pirates as more and more stormed aboard the ship, all under the command of one man. and while the screams of agony broke your heart to pieces, you remained unbent and unbroken.

you refused to bow your head to the pirate prince, as he did to you. 

his eyes twinkled with mischief as he crouched before your kneeling form, your hands bound by thick rope behind your back as he brushed a stray hair out of your face with a gloved hand, face only inches away from yours. the firelight flicked over his features, casting him as the devil and your savior in the same breath. 

“your daddy would pay a pretty penny to have you back.” 

this man was no stranger, yang jungwon was the son of the pirate king—the very man who had made a name for himself as he robbed, slaughtered, and terrorized the citizens of your kingdom as he pleased. you should have known he’d send his pretty son after you on the voyage home from a diplomatic trip. and though you supposed he was quite sharp to have successfully planned and executed a raid on a royal ship… you were sharper. 

“you gonna hand me over, then?” you sneered, eyes never leaving his own, and you noted they were just about as dark as the night sky hanging over your heads. “sell me to whichever lord is the oldest and the ugliest to feed your fleet for a measly half a year before they’re back to starving again?”

he gave a humorless laugh. “smart girl, but not quite. why keep you alive to feed my crew for that measly half a year when i could serve your royal head on a platter to your father’s enemies for double the amount?” 

“a measly year, then.” you said nonchalantly, and his eyes darkened further than you thought possible. 

“choose your next words carefully.” 

paying no mind to his previous threats, you shifted uncaringly, straightening your back despite the ash filling your lungs and the blood staining your gown of silk. “clearly, the great pirate prince is ill aware of how much my head is worth spouting what i know.”

“and what’s that?” jungwon challenged you, raising a brow. 

“information,” you said simply, a glint in your eye that made even the stomach of the pirate prince churn. “names. wealthy, powerful names of hidden allies that would prefer to see you rise to the throne of the tideborn once the lard that sits on it is dead. they all sit on the table in my court.”

“you’ve got some nerve,” the pirate laughed mockingly, something telling you that you’d captured his full attention. “a royal hostage is negotiating terms while her ship burns and her men become fish food. who’s to say that i’m not loyal to my father?” 

you remained still, expression unwavering. “because you wouldn’t be standing here trying to impress your princess if you weren’t.” 

“i am not trying to impress you.”

“then why haven’t you slit my throat yet?” 

the silence that followed after said enough, and it was time for you to act now before you could no longer do so, heart hammering in your chest. slowly, you rose to the balls of your feet and took a careful step forward towards the unmoving pirate, the harsh winds whipping strands of your hair across your face. 

“you want it so bad, don't you?” you whispered, pretending not to notice the way jungwon’s shoulders subtly tensed as you slowly circled around him like your surroundings weren’t in flames and your hands weren’t bound behind your back. “you want the tideborn seat, and you’ll stop at nothing to get it. i can give it to you, yang.” 

when he looked you straight in the eye, looking like he was deciding on whether to gut you or kiss you, you knew you had won. something in your gut told you that you’d be sleeping soundly in your own chambers tonight. 

“…untie the princess,” jungwon spoke, and his men immediately came forward to cut the rope that bound your wrists together with a machete. just like that, you were free. 

“you’re offering to give me the seat of the tides?”  the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, like a babe being given candy for good behavior. 

“i’ll make you king of the sea,” you nodded, smoothing the material of your dress with your hands like this entire situation mattered little to you. “i’ll surrender all those who uplift your father’s reign and oppose yours to you. as long as you continue to do the same for those who contend for my throne, as i do for yours.” 

that must’ve got him, because the pirate prince stepped back and raked his eyes over your bloody appearance like he was reassessing all of you. 

“i’m impressed,” jungwon grinned, and it was the first time he had done so genuinely in front of you, you noted, trying your best to not be entranced by his dimples. “you’re dangerous. i thought you’d beg for your life.” 

you smiled, and in the eyes of the future king of the sea, the flames surrounding you only added to your appeal. 

“i am my father’s daughter.” 

and so, your agreement ensued. the price of his tideborn throne for the price of your crownseat. correspondence delivered via jungwon’s white raven—who you soon learned was named maeumi—turned into your men meeting down at the coastline to exchange information at dawn every fortnight disguised as unsuspecting fishermen.

when information was more sensitive, too precious to be passed to one another by bird or by proxy, the sneaky pirate would come to you himself, evading palace guards with alarming ease. 

he would come to you in the still of night, having scaled the stone walls in absolute discretion. you’d find your windows unlatched and jungwon perched at the ledge and staring up at you smugly, winds whipping at the curtains as if it were its own entity. sometimes, you’d come back to find him knelt down on the polished floors of your chambers, giggling and affectionately rubbing the belly of what was supposed to be your loyal guard hound. much to your disdain, it welcomed the intruder, wagging his tail in the air as soon as the sound of your window latches coming undone filled the room. 

his visits were brief at first, although he never went without leaving you the most precious gift of all: intel. whether it was a word, a map, or a name, the pirate personally ensured you were never empty handed, even whenever you fell short of your end of the deal. 

as the space between you grew smaller, his visits grew longer. he began to linger, like vermin, not only in your rooms but in your heart as well as your mind. he’d run his fingers over the dusty spines of your book collection and sit at the foot of your bed while you brushed your hair on the other end, a rarity for whenever your resolve became soft from exhaustion. intently, almost gently he listened to whatever information you had to offer him that week. 

and then he would leave again, but not without intel turning into the charred ships of rival houses and mysterious, unexplained deaths of your every enemy. sometimes you commanded it, sometimes you didn’t.

either way, blood spilled, and you learned to stop asking from whose hands it came from. 

once, jungwon showed up to your chamber with a gash below his ribs, breathing erratic as he clutched his wound with a bloody hand. “a skirmish,” he had explained, though not before jokingly reminding you that not even a barrel to the head could make him miss a meeting. you rolled your eyes, but stitched up his gash without wasting a second, mumbling incoherencies about stupid, reckless pirates while he smiled down at you almost affectionately. 

after that night, the pirate prince started to bring gifts. small and careless, but material ones nonetheless. vintage bottles of wine that you had no doubt came from ship raids, seashells for you to wear in your hair, and once, a ribbon belonging to a noblewoman you despised. you almost smiled, before harshly reminding yourself that he was the enemy of your house, and the man that threatened your life not many fortnights ago. 

you would find a way to double-cross him one way or another, make him feel a betrayal of a lifetime and undo him in ways that nobody else could before he could do the same to you. or at least, that’s what you told yourself as you snuck kisses in the shadows of your castle and called on him when you could confide in nobody else. yang jungwon of course, came running like a hound every time. 

by the time autumn leaves gave way to icicles and snowflakes, your guards began to stop asking questions about the sounds of unlatching windows and creaky floorboards that seemed to only ever occur at night. 

and you? you no longer bothered to lock the windows. 

it’s past midnight when the chill of the outside air nips at your neck and travels down your spine, but you’re far too busy undoing the braids in your hair to look back. after all, you already know who’s perched on your window ledge like a hawk before his boots even hit the floor. 

“you’re late.” murmur, still facing the mirror as you remove the gold earrings tugging at your lobes. 

“and you’re engaged.” jungwon says, voice low and venomous. your body becomes rigid in response, like you’ve been caught committing an unforgivable sin.

you shift your gaze to meet his eyes through the reflection of the mirror, and to say that the pirate looked unhappy was an understatement. brown eyes stormy and jaw clenched tight, he inches closer to where you sit in front of your vanity until the smell of sea salt mixes with the perfume on your collar bones. 

the expensive one, he notes, having smothered you in the bed inches away from you until the fragrance faded one too many times before. one that you had imported from the faraway islands in the east to impress your fiance, no doubt. against his better judgement, the thought only enrages him further.

“congratulations,” he laughs bitterly, blowing his bangs out of his face in frustration. he purses his lips in such a way that allowed you a glimpse of his dimples, and you almost coo. “who’s the lucky man? one of your daddy’s simpering lackeys?” 

you don’t answer and it seems to enrage him more than any words could have, so he speaks once more. “i threw my lookout overboard and into the seas last week for a lesser betrayal.” 

you stand abruptly, turning to face him with the same venom in your tone. “you hold no claim over me.” 

“i don’t,” he snaps. “yet i was the one burning cities for you while you remained here, writing your dainty little letters to me about who you wanted dead and when.” 

“you think i owe you because you did what you were told?” you sneer defiantly, trying your hardest to not be consumed by the inches of distance between your faces. “don’t mistake your usefulness for something more.” 

“that’s rich coming from the girl who near threatened to gut me if i didn’t kiss her silly while her father’s name day feast was going on outside.” he argues, hands cupping your shoulders and gaze peering into your soul as if he was begging you to just see him. 

“you need me. just about as much as i need you. all of you.” 

you shake his hands off your shoulders, taking a few steps towards your billowing curtains to maintain a distance between you and whatever the seven hells you were with jungwon. 

“say something,” the pirate prince pleads, something you never thought you’d live long enough to see him do. despite your consciousness screaming at you to not give him the satisfaction he sought so desperately, you cave. 

furiously, you whip your head towards where he stands and let go. “do you think i enjoy being sold off like a bartering chip when i was promised my own throne?!” you snarl, nails digging into your palms at the thought of being forced into a marriage forged in paperwork. “you think this engagement means anything? that i chose park sunghoon myself? 

“then say no,” jungwon scoffs, staring at you like you just twisted a dagger into his heart. to him, you might as well have done it and it would pain him far less. 

“just say the word, and i’ll kill him myself. i’ll burn the entire damned court to ash and all you have to do is say no.” 

you stare at him, eyes wide and chest heaving like he hadn’t meant to say it– not out loud. 

“you’d start a war,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “stop pretending that you’re doing this for anything but your father’s piracy.” 

he steps forward without a word, the tension in the room so thick that you feel like it could descend and suffocate you at any moment. at least then, you’d be free from this torment. 

“i was,” jungwon’s voice drops. “and then i started seeing your face in the sea at the dead of night and wondering when i could come home to you next.” 

the pirate didn’t say it, not directly, but you hated him for saying anything that could even be remotely related to love first. you should have slapped him, scorning him for thinking he could ever be anything other than the enemy you entertained to save your own life. 

but instead, your fingers dig into the collar of his heavy coat. 

and you kiss him. 

there’s no softness in the way your lips move against each other, just months of tension, arguments and correspondence that could never satiate either of your appetites. he tastes of caramel candies and smells of smoke and sea salt, everything you hate about him down to your very core. and yet, your body continues to betray your mind as you loop your arms around his neck and his hands find your waist as if they belong there. 

when you finally break away from each other, you're breathless against his chest as jungwon wordlessly holds you close to his rapidly beating heart. “you’re the most awful man i know.” 

“you wait for me nightly regardless, princess” your pirate murmurs, and you hate that he speaks the truth. 

for a split second you wish that you could let yourself stay in his warmth forever. you wish that ending your engagement was as simple as saying no, and you know to yourself that the man holding you close wishes the very same. 

then, reality comes creeping back like the cold air billowing through your curtains. you shove him away. 

“go,” you say, face void of any previous emotion. “before i do something i regret.” 

for once, jungwon doesn’t have a sly remark. he backs away from you slowly, the expression on his face unreadable. 

“i’ll be back,” he says, and you know it’s a promise. 

and then he’s gone, swallowed by the darkness of the night and the sounds of the sea lapping at the coast like he always was, his final words to you ringing in your ears like a melody. 

you latch your windows shut, though not before sending a prayer to the heavens to ensure his safety. 

after all, he was your weakness, as you were his. 

taglist: @won1yoiz @dreamiestay @wonys-won

so when you close your eyes, you can almost feel it: the slight sheen of sweat that clung to your neck inside that clammy photobooth, the faint sound of jazz seeping in from beyond the curtains, and the incessant thrum of your beating heart. and most important of all –

the wrong that had settled into your gut as jake’s eyes bore into your own, searching you up and down for any semblance of mercy for his own actions.

it had been desperate. almost reverent. just enough to keep you awake most nights like you hadn’t already been tossing and turning in your sheets upon your enrollment to this cursed institution. and so when the clock hits four in the morning, you’re on your feet and out of the dorm, careful not to make so much as a peep as you slip past the oak doors and into the morning air. your mug is gone and so is your bookbag, yet your weighty presence lingers on inside like a stubborn perfume anyway.

you like to think your intentional absence doesn’t matter anyhow. at least, not to jake.

but if the bags under your eyes and way you and your roommate have returned to avoiding each other entirely are anything to go by, your little impromptu outing last weekend has left quite the stain on you instead.

and to think that it’s jake sim who has you lying awake in bed at night makes you want to curl into a ball of self loathing and —

“hey,” sunoo whispers evenly, long lashes fluttering at you as he blinks on from across the mahogany table of one of the many, many libraries that litter campus. “what’s wrong with you?”

you blink back, just as confused and twice as exhausted, scrambling to cook up an excuse that doesn’t involve your new living arrangement.

“nothing,” you say, a little too quickly this time as your fingers tighten around your mechanical pencil as though it might steady you. another hand comes up to rub at your heavy lids, pressing hard enough to itch away the sting. “there’s this new ta on everyone’s ass.”

a harmless half-truth. one that sounds flimsier the moment it leaves you.

still, with finals coming up like a slow and inevitable storm, you let yourself bear the slightest of hopes that sunoo won’t see past your lame fib.

“alright,” he hums, and it’s too measured; too careful.

“must be an awful guy,” the blonde drawls, leaning back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world for you alone, eyes fixed on your own like you’re the most interesting thing in the room.

and god, you loathe the way heat starts to curl up your neck.

somewhere along the way, upon forming your strange and precarious alliance with kim sunoo, you convinced yourself that lying would come easy. that it would slip naturally off the tongue like something justified. necessary, even.

and it had been, until now. because as his eyes drift from your vice grip on your beat-up pencil, to the way your jaw ticks, then to your own shaky orbs, you can’t find it in yourself to look back in defiance.

when you finally snap away from his gaze, you know you’ve been caught in a lie. and for a moment, the room lulls.

“should i get rid of him?” he asks, smiling. almost teasing. it’s soft, sweet, and entirely wrong, because you know he’d do it in a heartbeat if you did so much as nod yes.

your stomach drops, and for half a second, you’re back in that photobooth.

“you mean,“ you guffaw, but the words catch in your mouth as the realization settles. “the ta?”

sunoo tilts his head, blinking innocently. “who else?”

you huff, shaking your head like it’ll brush it off, but your grip on the pencil doesn’t loosen. to think of it, when was the last time you’d actually written anything? your head practically burns when you try to recall a time where you’d been unoccupied by the constant reminder of finals, council duties, and —

“oh fuck,” you gasp, standing so abruptly that your chair screeches as you stand. when the heads of poor, unsuspecting students whose only desires are to study for finals in peace snap towards you, you’re too frazzled to pay them any mind. “i gotta go.”

“what?” sunoo blinks, a flicker of genuine surprise dancing in his eyes for the first time this morning. ”so soon?”

“yeah, i forgot all about this meeting with yoon,” you heave, messily gathering your things and shoving them in your book back without sparing much attention to the way your papers fold and crinkle. “i better run over there before he lectures me about how hierarchy is maintained by conduct again.”

“but —“

you barely managed a rushed “i’ll see you!” before you’re scrambling on your feet and out the door, the irritated eyes of caffeinated students following you until you disappear into the hallways.

and sunoo, as always, would stay exactly where he was — composed, untouched, and above it all. because if you knew anything about him at all, you’d think he reveled in the pressure that yoon and the higher-ups liked to weigh upon your shoulders.

except you can practically feel his eyes burning into the curve of your back, and the hairs on your neck have basically begun to stand on their own.

you’re not sure what to make of it. in fact, you’re not sure what to make of anything anymore.

.

.

.

upon your return from your little excursion, jake has come to realize two things:

the first being that he’s gained an unusual partiality to taking photobooth pictures. if the feel of the smooth, glossy film in between his fingers and the way the sheen catches the light are anything to go by, you might as well have considered him hooked.

second, and quite frankly the most troubling for reasons he can’t quite place, is that you are clearly, most definitely avoiding him.

which shouldn’t be much of an issue at all, really, for two individuals who have been at each other’s throats since day one. it shouldn’t matter, not when one night shouldn’t be enough to shift into anything real.

except it is — and he cannot, for the life of him, seem to understand why.

the council room stretches around him, all tall windows and heavy chandeliers coating polished floors in their warmth. the long oak table lined woth high-backed chairs stretches across the center like a declaration of power, and jake finds that this place is quiet.

too quiet.

that is, until you’re bursting through the doors and yoon (read: who jake forgot was even present,) is jolting up furiously from across his wooden seat.

you, who’s slightly out of breath, hair disheveled just enough to tell him how much the day has weighed on you.

you, whose bag is practically sliding off your shoulders by the time you rush to take your seat beside him.

your chest rises and falls with every passing second, eyes sweeping across the room before they land on him for a moment too long before they're gone like they’d never been on him in the first place.

jake straightens in his seat, practically instinctive from the way his fingers curl around the arm rest. yoon tuts.

“late,” the older man scowls, and the words cut through the air like a fencing blade. you almost flinch, and jake winces when he’s granted the displeasure of noticing.

dorm master yoon stands imposingly at the head of the table, pocketing a silver pocket watch and expression carved from something cold and awfully cruel by the way he looks at you. or more specifically, the silver pin that gleams above your heart.

“i do hope your morning was productive enough to justify your absence from council duties,” he continues, voice clipped.

“it was, sir,” you say immediately, spine turning rigid when your dorm master snaps his head towards you. “i — i lost track of time.”

“time?” yoon repeats after you, steam practically coming from his head at how furious you’ve managed to make him. “i’ll have you know that hierarchy in this academy is maintained by — !“

“i sent her,” jake cuts in, and the words are clean. measured. they echo throughout the vastness of the council room like a simple truth, even when they are anything but. jake doesn’t even look at you when he says it, and for a second, the entire place stills.

your dorm master, still equally as enraged, turns to look at you with a disbelieving frown. “is this true?”

with your heart still pounding from the run, you can barely even open your mouth to speak when jake beats you to it.

“i needed documents from the archives,” he continues calmly, fingers lacing together on the table. “they weren’t where i needed them to be.”

a blatant lie.

you can hardly keep your jaw from dropping as yoon studies him for a long moment, expression tight as if he’s weighing whether or not to press further. and then –

“very well,” the bitter old man grunts. “see to it that your tasks are accounted for next time.”

“yes, sir,” you reply stiffly, and your words come out quieter this time around.

one beat passes, then another, before yoon is exhaling through his nose and adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. you think the movement alone is enough to feel dismissive. but then again, everything about the man does.

you find yourself wondering for a moment whether he gives other members of the council like yang jungwon half as much shit. altough the thought subsides when you realize that in complete fairness, it’s not as if you have a political dynasty for a bloodline like your classmate does.

“founder’s week is not simply another one of this academy’s self-indulgent traditions,” yoon begins sharply, shoes clacking on the polished floors before he comes to a stop beside a tall window. “it is tradition.”

you resist the urge to roll your eyes, and if jake feels the same, he certainly doesn’t show it.

“to commemorate the establishment of solstice academy through the graciousness of its generous donors, the students of your year and a select few talents from the lower pool are given a week to mingle amongst the country’s most elite,” yoon continues, and the morning light cuts at the sharp lines of his face. “meaning investors are present. politicians. alumni from the four corners of the world. founder’s week is where futures are decided, and this council oversees every aspect of it.”

jake’s fingers, which previously came down to tap at the arm rests have come to a halt.

you on the other hand, feel your exhaustion deepen tenfold.

when yoon approaches the mahogany table to set a thick folder down hard enough to make you jump in your seat, you pray your roommate doesn’t notice.

“sim,” he tuts, “you will oversee sponsorships and that security coordination with the parks go smoothly.”

“understood,” jake hums, nodding once like he’s already grown bored of the conversation.

“and you,” yoon sighs, craning his head to stare down at you like you’re scum on the floor. “you will manage logistics, media preparation, and see to it that our guests are tended to at every moment.”

your eye twitches. “of course.”

just when you think this new onslaught of council duties can’t possibly, get any worse, they do.

“as for the two of you jointly,” yoon drawls on, completely indifferent to the visible despair that creeps over your features. “you will supervise ballroom preparation and the opening ceremony.”

the room stills.

“. . . the opening ceremony?” jake frowns, and yoon sends him a look like the message should’ve been obvious.

“the first dance, of course,” he continues coolly, like you two were the crazy ones for not wanting to believe that such a silly tradition could’ve found itself nestled in this year’s festivities. “tradition states that the student council representatives open up the floor before the rest of the guests are permitted to partake.”

“pardon?” you choke, and you don’t miss the way jake’s hands ball into fists next to you. “will all due respect, i don’t think that’s –”

“you, of course, would need dance lessons,” yoon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a neatly gloved hand. “talk to miss lee down at reception by the end of this week. she should have accommodations for the two of you then.”

jake blinks. “the two of us?”

“the two of you,” old man yoon reaffirms, sterner this time. jake looks like he’s swallowed a rag whole. “can i trust that you will conduct yourselves in a manner that suits the best interests of our proud institution?”

for one slow and agonizing second, silence reigns over your resolve — not that you have much of that left.

rain taps softly against the tall glass of the windows, and the chapel bells toll distantly from somewhere far away from the north wing where you sit. the sound is haunting enough to sink beneath your skin and echo in your head, and from beside you, jake clears his throat.

“of course,” he replies, voice clipped. “you have my word.”

you swear you could groan in exasperation when yoon’s gaze drifts towards you expectedly.

“mine as well, sir.”

and in that moment, you decide that you detest it all; the strange heat that seems to climb up your neck as of late. the way that jake sim always seems so close despite standing a few feet away at all times. the fact the somewhere in between shameless bribery and arguments beneath stairwells and atop wooden docks, jake has become infuriatingly easy to exist beside.

you hate it all, and most of all, you hate him. so much so, that when you look up next you realize you hadn’t noticed that the council room had already emptied entirely until only you and jake remained at the helm.

chandeliers hum overhead, and somewhere outside, wind rattles against stained windows and ivy-covered walls.

your mouth begins to run before you can stop yourself.

“you didn’t have to lie for me,” you begin defeatedly, standing up to shovel papers into your satchel more aggressively than necessary.

“i didn’t lie,” jake retorts, glancing up slowly from where he’s adjusting his tie like he’s suddenly found it hard to breathe. “i improvised.”

was it always so hot in here?

your eye twitches. “that’s literally lying.”

now it’s jake’s turn to eye you wordlessly, and unexplainable fury reignites in your chest when the corners of his mouth twitch.

“you’re welcome, by the way.”

despite yourself, the memory of the jazz bar flashes embarrassingly fast through your head — red lights, vintage vinyl, and jake’s laugh vibrating low enough to settle in your chest. you push the thought away as fast as it came to you

your grip tightens around your bag strap, and without another word, your roommate is headed off to god-knows where.

though, not before he makes one final stop by the doorway.

“sleep more,” he says quietly, though his words come out more like a plea than a command from the way his shoulders square like he’s embarrassed to even be saying this. “i can hear you shuffle around in the common room at night, you know.”

you stand there long after he’s gone.

after the incident in the council room, you wish you could say that was the end of it.

or at least, it should've been — neatly tucked away into the growing box of shared secrets you’ve racked up with jake sim. except afterwards, he and his infuriating actions begin to grow on you like fungus.

it starts small: with a cup of coffee that materializes at the common room’s dining table when you snap awake from a particularly rigorous study session. no note, and still warm by the time you take notice. you spend ten whole minutes glowering at it before deciding to drink it anyway.

then came the incident in the courtyard.

he’d caught you cutting through the quad once, all tired eyes and heavy frowns that run so deep you’re sure it’s laid the foundation to a wrinkle or two.

jake, who remained all cool composure and perfect posture, grabbed at your elbow just as you were about to successfully make your exit without the weight of any whispers.

“you’re going the wrong way,” he’d said as a matter of factly, as you blinked up at him with heavy lids and a death grip on your skirt hem.

“what?”

“the archives are east wing. you always cut through the courtyard after meetings,” he said simply. “you’ll get there faster through chapel halls.”

oh. right.

“thanks,” you swallowed thickly, pinching at your thigh in an attempt to get your head out the gutter. with a stiff nod from you and an awkward wave goodbye on his end, you were off.

your breaking point comes during the wretched dance lessons, on a wednesday evening where finals loom closer and your logistics duties seem never-ending. oh, how you detest the dance lessons — and jake by association.

it starts out like so: your hand in his, rain tapping against the windows, and your dance instructor trying her absolute best not to lose her mind. she barks orders and sighs like you two have managed to deplete her lifespan by half, yet you find yourself entirely consumed by the uncomfortable way your hand fits in jake’s.

“you’re both too stubborn to follow each other,” mrs. cho rubs at her temples. “start again.”

over the past 30 minutes, you’ve stepped on jake’ foot at least twelve times. thirteen if the sharp inhale that left him moments ago is anything to go by. yet every time you pull away, his rough hands tighten around your own as if to tell you to bear the rest of the session.

when you and the sim heir return to your starting positions, shoulders slumped and hands reluctantly entwined, the music stops and the shrill voice of your dance instructor echoes throughout the studio once more.

“shoulders straight!”

it’s safe to say that mrs. cho leaves the session 15 minutes early, claiming a bad headache.

your waltz lessons are a complete and utter disaster, to say the least.

.

.

.

during night patrols, the academy feels less like a place of learning and more like a mausoleum, because if the way shadows spill over the floors are anything to go by, the founders buried beneath the chapel crypts might as well have been wandering the halls themselves.

with every step you make, the vintage portraits that line the walls seem to watch you in suffocating silence. your leather shoes click against polished marble, and your flashlight flickers in your hands like all it wants to do is just give out.

jake, of course, scans over the ghostly hallways with practiced indifference, his own light shining bright enough to make you wince when he turns your way.

“the west wing is clear,” he murmurs absentmindedly, pursing his lips when your light decides to flicker shut for the final time. “. . . you need help with that?”

the moment his arms twitch like he’s about to reach out for you, you take a sharp step backwards, jamming the light into your palm multiple times before it flickers open once more. “i’ve got it – thanks.”

jake’s arms snap back to his sides, but you’re too preoccupied to notice the way he clears his throat and begins to fiddle with the cuff on his sleeves. your mind is somewhere else entirely, nestled within the the confines of the north tower that you’ve been unable to access since your move to the north wing.

you wonder, albeit aimlessly, if jiwoo’s final moments sit behind those walls waiting for you. wanting to finally tell the truth.

“we still need to check the chapel halls and –”

“i’ll cover the east,” you say quickly, remaining resolute when jake stops in his tracks a couple steps ahead of you. “we’d be finished in half the time it would take the two of us to patrol those areas together.”

usually, this is where he’d feel compelled to argue. he’d throw some sarcastic remark your way and insist on sticking together as per bitter old yoon’s orders, and you’d glare right back but proceed together anyway.

except, this time is different. some sort of distance lingers between you two that can’t quite attribute to coldness, just the quiet hesitance that comes over two people that have come to realize there are certain lines neither of you can uncross.

he stares at you for a beat too long, before he tears his eyes away from you and unto the winding hall that lies ahead of him.

“alright.”

that’s it.

your chest tightens unexpectedly.

“meet me back here in 20?” you offer, and jake is already walking away by the time the words leave you.

“sure.” he says, and with that, you’re off before he can even begin to witness the guilt that creeps beneath your skin.

with your pulse hammering in your ears, you let your feet take you as far as they can up endless staircases and endless corridors. the higher you climb, the colder the air becomes, and you find yourself wondering about the sick turns of fate that led jiwoo up there on a winter night in the first place.

was she as cold as you are now, if not worse?

god, you hope not.

you carry on anyways, past the dust that gathered between old stone railings and the sharp howl of the wind that shake the windows lining the landings. solstice groans around you like a living beast settling into a deep slumber, and yet you cannot find it in you to stop moving. 

not now, not when you’ve come so far.

when you reach the top floor absolutely winded, the big wooden entrance to the tower materializes in front of you as if daring you to make a move. you take one step, then two, before your shaky fingers finally come to curl around the knob and twist.

with a sharp click! and the approaching sound of footsteps from behind you, you come to realize two things:

the door is locked. of course it’s locked. why wouldn’t it be, when this place was a crime scene a little less than a year ago? since jiwoo’s murder, the tower has been subsequently closed to students and faculty alike, and you were a fool to ever believe this door would be open for you upon arrival.

second, and most urgently, is that you’re about to get yourself caught. now. without a second to spare, your hands snap back to your sides and you’re bracing yourself for the worst. your pulse sounds heavily as the footsteps come to a halt behind you, and then –

“you students really enjoy making my life difficult,” a gruff voice echoes from behind you, and you whip your head around to come face to face with your new company.

your knees almost buckle in relief, because whoever stood in front of you now was no student, nor were they security. you have half the mind to thank the stars that you weren’t cursed with a repeat of your first encounter with sunoo outside the library archives, because instead, an elderly janitor stands just head of you with his hands on his hips.

“i was just patrolling, sir,” you explain cooly, and the elder’s eyes come to rest on the silver brooch pinned to your chest – a symbol of your seat within the council.

“this area has been closed for months,” he says slowly, glancing between you and the locked door to the tower. “this is a restricted area.”

“i got lost,” you chuckle insincerely, a hand coming up to rub at your neck when the older man’s frown deepens. “i moved here just this year.”

a beat passes, then another, and the wind rattles violently against the stained glass overhead. the old janitor studies you for a long moment before he groans, rubbing at his face with a tired hand.

“you council students are all the same,” he grumbles, but you find yourself preoccupied by a glint from the corner of your eyes. “too much curiosity.”

your eyes flick downward instinctively, and it’s as if a wildfire has begun in your chest when you catch sight of the ring of rusty metal keys hung on his belt. there are dozens of them, and one sits noticeably larger than the others.

you apologize quietly, but your mind has been elsewhere since the moment the glint of the metal caught your eye. after all, you’re willing to bet that key is your ticket into the north tower and any secrets you may find within.

you need to get that key.

.

.

.

the next morning arrives all grey and miserable, and you let yourself hope, albeit for one measly second, that your new ta will forego coming to class today.

not that your prayers come to fruition, because lo and behold, the man strides in the moment you let your shoulders sag by just a fraction. sharp-faced and imposing, professor jung is every bit of the terror teacher that elites and scholarship students alike make him out to be.

if there was one thing you hadn’t lied about during your last conversation with the kim group heir, it was that your substitute professor personally went out of his way to make all of your lives a whole lot more difficult. not out of some noble yet slightly twisted desire to push students towards excellence, either — jung liked to humiliate. to bruise.

and as if advanced calculus at eight in the morning wasn’t enough psychological warfare, the little man is downright irritating.

“phones in the bin,” he says flatly, setting his leather briefcase down with a dull thud. “if i see one, you can all kiss your participation grades goodbye.”

your eye twitches. collective outrage fills the room, and your deskmate physically recoils from beside you.

speaking of your deskmate, lee heeseung hasn’t strolled in late to this class since professor jung walked in and announced himself in charge as replacement for your previous professor’s maternity leave. which, to be frank, should be enough to terrify anybody who knows your deskmate.

including you.

you glance sideways one, then twice, but you’re met with the same miserable sight every time. because from the way dark circles pool at the skin beneath heeseung’s eyes, and the pristine uniform collar he usually has neatly pressed and folded has since fallen into a half-folded mess of wrinkled cotton, it’s pretty darn obvious that professor jung has been making his life a living hell too.

when your desk mate’s half-lidded gaze meets yours as if having sensed the intrusion on your end, you snap your head away towards the front of the room where jung has begun to write a plethora of symbols and numbers you aren’t quite sure you can keep up with.

from then on, your 45 minute lecture goes by like a prison sentence carved out in chalk dust and misery. between your substitute professor confiscating three burner phones within the next fifteen minutes and stopping mid-equation to stare down an athlete who’d fallen asleep in the third row, you’d mentally checked out whatever he’d been trying to explain.

nobody escapes him. not the elites, and definitely not scholarship. and for the first time in solstice history, a class has seemingly united under the heat of one, singular teaching assistant from the depths of hell.

“you,” he says suddenly, pointing at heeseung who suddenly straightens in his seat beside you. “finish the proof.”

a quiet murmur spreads throughout the room, because unfortunately for jung’s sadistic tendencies, lee heeseung is brilliant.

he’s briliant in the loud, showy way that most solstice students are, but heeseung sits at the very top at the hierarchy with the rest of his glamorous friend group simply because he shines brighter than all else without trying. he rises from his seat without complaint, cutting across the room towards the board as he rolls the sleeves of his uniform shirt higher up his forearms.

the proof that unravels beneath the chalk in his hands is beautiful. your classmates seem to have been enveloped in a sort of collective awe, and even you sit up straighter in your seat as line after line of a perfectly executed solution fills the board in quick succession.

“sexy,” you hear a girl whisper to her friend from behind you, and you chew your lip to keep yourself from snorting.

when heeseung finally sets the chalk down, a heavy silence falls under the classroom. jung steps up to study the proof for a long moment, and then –

“sloppy.”

heeseung blinks once, then twice, like he genuinely misheard. even you have to bite your tongue lest you let your jaw drop to the ground, because objectively speaking, his solution had been perfect. “pardon?”

“you skipped the intermediary steps,” jung tuts, already reaching for the eraser. “take your seat, boy.”

something flashes behind heeseung’s eyes then, and it’s annoyance nor humiliation, but pride. professor jung had challenged him publicly, and you deign to think about a rich heir’s opinion on being made to look small.

you almost cringe, and the real estate heir takes his seat beside you stiffly.

the rest of your first period goes by in an exhausting haze of terror and hopelessness, and your clasesmates practically flee the lecture hall by the end of it. you shove your things into your book bag with a little less gracefulness than your dance instructor would’ve hoped, and then you’re on your way too.

that is, until a hand comes to clamp around your wrist and you’re tugged backwards into a narrow alcove tucked between two towering bookcases . . . and pushed up against lee heeseung’s built chest.

the movement leaves you forcefully trapped between cold stone and warm uniform fabric, and unfortunately for your throbbing headache, heeseung is entirely too close.

you open your mouth to argue, but his hand comes up to clamp lightly over your mouth while another snakes over your form in an effort to keep you still.

“heeseung –” you hiss, but your voice is muffled by the flesh of his palm. he only holds you even tighter against him like that’ll put a stop to your incessant squirming. “what are you –”

“will you shut up for a sec?” he whispers harshly against the shell of your ear, and your glare sharpens against his palm. heeseung ignores you entirely like you arent pulled flush against his own body.

and you think, just for a moment, about where in god’s name could he have gotten all this natural strength from. competitive fencing can only do so much.

“listen,” he says, quieter this time. and as much as you want to kick him in the shin and go about your day, your wretched curiosity takes the reigns and you do. outside the alcove, footsteps echo throughout the corridor and render the two of you silent.

your breath catches, and then, you hear it: the echo of profesor jung’s flat voice floats towards you and the two of you go still.

“. . . tonight. eleven o’ clock.”

through the narrow gap between shelves, you’re almost abe to catch sight of your ta standing just outside the faculty office with his phone pressed up against his ear. his expression, usually all clipped irritation and pursed lips, has gone eerily tense. suspiciously so.

another voice crackles over the speaker, but it’s too weak and too muffled for you to make out.

“no,” jung answers sharply, and you can feel heesueng’s grip instinctively tighten around you more than you thought possible. “nobody can know about us.”

a pause follows, and rain drums harder against the stained-glass window overhead. you can practically feel heeseung’s heart beating louder in his chest with every passing second, and it’s both a shock and a passing amusement to you, who hadn’t even been aware he possessed one.

he must really despise jung.

your ta lets out a hefty sigh. “meet me tonight by the outdoor chapel. we’ll talk then.”

the line disconnects, and for the longest minute of your life, neither you or heeseung dare to move. his hands are still hot and heavy on your person, and they only loosen and fall to his sides when professor jung retreats into the office with a sharp click.

when you whip your head around to face him, his own bulging eyes are already crashing into your own as a wild grin spreads across his face so quickly that it startles you.

“holy shit,” you say, and the words leave you before you can even begin to stop them. your desk mate laughs in response, and the sound is warm against the cold stone and the rain-kissed windows.

“you,” he starts, leaning in towards you in a manner that’s entirely way too close. even for you. “are going to help me get rid of jung.”

you frown. “why would i do that?”

you, in all your excruciating months at this academy, have cared much for the genius of a trainwreck that is lee heeseung. he is arrogant in the way most solstice heirs are. predictable in the way that shouldn’t have even made you look twice. and yet, heeseung becomes increasingly difficult to ignore.

he’s charming – too charming for his own good and entirely too talented at making sure everything he desires bends completely to his will. including you.

when you stare up at him flatly, pressing a hand to his chest to slowly shove him away, heeseung lets himself be moved with surprising ease. you take the opportunity to move past him without a word, and you're already a few steps away from him and on your merry way out of the alcove when heeseung says something that makes you stop in your tracks.

“because you want him gone as much as i do?” he offers, tilting his head in that innocent, downright mocking way that makes you want to hurl.

and the worst part is, he’s right. because after weeks of yoon’s brutal torment, your fight for evidence, and your council duties (with your mortal enemy) alone, you’re well aware that professor jung is another liability you are unable to shovel onto your plate.

but to rid him from this school and his job just because he’d proven to be annoying is new territory to you entirely. to ruin a professor – even one as irritating as jung – toes dangerously close to a line you dare not cross.

besides, you’ve learned from your dealings with sunoo that striking an agreement with an elite is basically making a deal with the devil. you’ve seen it happen. you’ve survived it yourself.

but this? ths would be cruel.

you tell yourself, with as much conviction as you are able to muster, that a professor with as big of a secret as jung is apparently hiding shouldn’t be anywhere near a teaching license, anyway. that someone willing to risk their position so recklessly must have something fundamentally wrong with them.

it should have been enough to make you walk away.

but within moments, you’re thrust back into the night you’d last attempted a break-in at the north tower and the way the keys jingled along that elderly janitor’s belt loop. you tell yourself thiis must be providence, because after all, sneaking around with lee heeseung after curfew meant another chance to snag that key.

and so you wrench your eyes shut, then exhale.

“. . . fine,”

slowly but surely, a wretched smile comes to bloom accross heeseung’s face.

“i knew you loved me.”

when you insult him and he laughs outright, the sound echoing throughout the alcove and down the crowded halls, you carefully step out of it together and back into the flow of the winding corridors. rain patters against the stained glass windows and trails down in silver rivulets as students travel in clusters of navy uniforms and polished shoes, voices hushed beneath vaulted ceilings like the academy itself demanded reverence.

you barely make it three steps into bickering with your desk mate when you feel a chill travel down the curve of your back, and you turn your head instinctively.

and right there, standing beneath the curve of an opposite archway, is kim sunoo, and the expression on his face is so subtle that most people would miss it entirely. except you aren’t most people, especially not to sunoo.

he’s aways been beautiful in a deliberate sort of way – every smile and intentional bat of his eyes specifically crafted to wound like a weapon draped in silk. but now, something quiet looms over his delicate features as his eyes flick between the distance between you and his friend . . . or lack thereof.

and for once, sunoo does not smile.

.

.

.

when lunch arrives, the awful weather does not give way. if anything, the stormclouds hang lower and streak the windows with even more breathtaking silvers of rain, but none of it does anything at all to silence the usual hum of the dining hall.

all polished chaos and porcelain clinking against cutlery, students laugh a little too loudly beneath vaulted ceilings and portraits of school founders that remain immortalized in oil in a manner that resembles the saints.

at the center table, however, the atmosphere shifts the moment lee heeseung drops into his seat with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up high, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

seated diagonal to him is jake sim, diligently working through founder’s week documents with a silent precision. his coffee sits as cold and untouched as the rain that envelopes campus, and sunghoon sits next to him quietly flipping through fencing notes as ni-ki complains about an economics test that nobody believes he studied for.

sunoo looks over at the new arrival through the rim of his glass, slowly and carefully like he’s trying to appear as if he isn’t watching at all. unfortunately, everyone seated at the table knows each other too well to write him off.

jungwon is the first to collapse under the weight of unspoken tension, setting his fork down and sighing. “oh, brother.”

“did you have a productive morning?” sunoo drawls, leaning back in his seat across from heeseung and catching the attention of a few of the other friends seated at the table. even jay looks up from his workbook, brows raised as his gaze flickers between sunoo and heeseung.

heeseung’s lips twitch upwards into the ghost of a smile.

“productive enough,” he retorts, shoveling a portion of sea bass into his mouth. “jung’s classes hit you pretty hard.”

“mm, it didn’t look pretty academic to me,” the blonde jeers, twirling an expensive pen in his fingers as he tilts his head mockingly.

“did i miss something?” ni-ki mumbles.

“you know, usually when most people are jealous, they say it outright.” heeseung.

“i just think,” sunoo starts slowly, reaching down with his fork to stab at a potato on his lunch tray. “that sneaking around closed corridors is a pretty funny way to start the morning.”

“i’m sorry?” jake blinks from his seat, and sunghoon has already put his notes down in exchange for a front row seat to this untoward encounter.

“why thank you,” the oldest boy grins, leaning back in his seat with a lazy stretch of his long arms. “if it makes you feel better, she agreed to see me again tonight.”

riki chokes into his drink. jake stills, barely noticeable, but just enough for the paper in his hand to stop moving all together. after all, he’s well aware that there is only one woman in the entirety of this academy that could make sunoo act out in such a way.

and as for sunoo — his smile remains perfectly intact.

except this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

it’s finally here! feel free to lmk what you think about this chapter through comments or asks <3

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