You hate that you can shout and bitch and groan at this beautiful boy and he does nothing. You hate that you can snap at him for doing something as simple as wanting your attention and yet he refuses to get upset. He sits there and he stays worried about you. He stays, and he’s caring and helpful and tender, and you hate that. You hate that all of this would be easier if he just walked away and he doesn’t.

“J - just stop.” you stutter though your heavy breathing and he sits there, frozen. It feels like all of your stress and frustration is finally boiling over, and you wish he wasn’t here to get caught in the crossfires.

Because he’s always there. Hoseok is always caught in the crossfires with you. With you and your stupid steadfastness, and your indecisive heart, and the battle between your wants and your needs because at this point, Hoseok has become a need, and goddamn it do you hate that.

“I need you to just stop and leave me alone right now. I can talk to you after, but right now can you just please -- ” you cut yourself off with a choked sob, and those angry tears begin to spill over. And of course that stupid, sweet boy doesn’t listen to you a single bit. Of course he’s there, surging forward and pushing textbooks and papers and your laptop out of the way. And you want to complain, tell him that you’re studying, tell him that you’re busy. But any protest dies on your tongue because suddenly that magnanimous boy is there and he’s cradling your chin in his hands. He’s dipping low to brush away stray tears with soft kisses, which doesn’t do much except to form new ones in your eyes.

You’re annoyed with him, but on top of that you’re stressed. You’re stressed and tired and so overworked, and you don’t think anyone could blame you for letting yourself get pulled into the arms of this boy. This boy who was a magnate in caring for others. This boy who draws you in, folding you into his chest and tucking your head under his chin. This boy who gently pets your hair back as your shoulder shake with silent sobs.

“Come on, pretty girl.” he murmurs, and your heart cries at that too. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

And like a rubber band pulled too taut, you snap. Everything is pouring out, and you hate it. Suddenly, your worries come spilling out in wracked sobs, and you hate it. You’re telling him about the essays you have due, and the finals you’re taking soon, and the too long meetings for all the clubs you joined to beef up your resume, and the assignments due, and all the studying, and all the sleep you lost, and you hate it. You hate it, you hate it, you hate it. Because this saccharine boy just holds you throughout, and whispers sweet nothings into your ear when you’re done.

And you hate it most because this wasn’t part of your plan. He wasn’t supposed to be this wealth of comfort that you crawl to like you’ve been without care your entire life. You never meant for this, whatever it is, to be…..more. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but you can’t quite control yourself and you hate it.

Your sobs quiet down and your hands ball into fist and you push lightly at his chest. Lightly enough that he knows you don’t genuinely want him to let go, but he does anyways. He lets go and he turns to stack all your study materials on your bedside table. He lets go only to pull you back towards him a second later, gently nudging you downwards to rest your head against your pillow. You stare at him, eyes wide and confused, and he doesn’t answer the clear question in your eyes. Instead he pulls the comforter over the two of you before pulling your frozen form in to nestle against his chest.

And because you keep finding yourself helpless to this boy, you melt into his touch. You rest your head in the divot of his chest. Match your breathing to the rise and falls of his. Find comfort in the steady thump thump of his heartbeat against your ear. And maybe your heart is racing quicker now than it was earlier, but you let yourself indulge in this brief breach of the rules that only you know about.

“Stop stressing, pretty girl. You can let yourself rest for a little bit.”

You feel his breath even out to gentle puffs against the top of your head every so often. And you wonder how you’ve grown to be so weak for this boy. Weak enough to let him convince you to do this. And you lie there, and wonder, and listen, and eventually your eyelids grow heavy enough to flutter shut and you join him for a few minutes of blissful rest from your hectic finals week.