#shineesbackbitches

From the time you began attending school, you always walked back home together— you and Wonwoo. Coincidentally, when clubs became a mandatory thing (something about the school administration promoting ‘holistic, well-rounded, there’s-more-to-life-than-grades-but-we’ll-pull-you-out-of-participating-in-your-club-activities-if-you-fall-below-a-B-minus-in-a-class’ students), you ended up in clubs that finished at the same time. You even ended up attending the same university, and would shuffle back to your dorms from late night library camp outs.

Wonwoo had always been a quiet kid, preferring to listen rather than contribute to conversations. He had no trouble entertaining himself either. You’d learned that it wasn’t that he lacked a personality— the guy was fucking hilarious— it just didn’t come out unless he was comfortable. He was just introverted and making friends wasn’t as easy for him as it was for other kids.

But were you really one to talk?

If you were in a self-reflective mood, you’d cop to being an eighth of a teaspoon more extroverted than Wonwoo. Large crowds were a major turn off, as were loud places. You needed to mentally prepare for a hang out with more than two other people. Going home immediately after school to co-exist in a room with Wonwoo was more appealing than joining a group of classmates to venture into the busiest shops your hometown had to offer for trendy Insta pics. It was safe to say you were as much of an introvert as he was— plus, the two of you lived nearby and there were no other kids close to your age in the neighborhood. It was only natural that you would gravitate toward each other. So you grew familiar with the little boy with rounded cheeks, rumpled dark fringe, and chubby yet abnormally nimble hands (probably from the hours he spent immersed in gaming).

The difference between the two of you was that while Wonwoo wholeheartedly embraced his withdrawn nature, kept his tight-knit circle of friends, and basked in the comfort of frequent solitude, you made the effort to become more extroverted. What if people thought you were standoffish if you repeatedly declined their invites to outings? Would your classmates not like you anymore? Would they distance themselves from you?

The fear convinced you to agree to more spontaneous ventures far outside your comfort zone. You admittedly had fun with your friends, but it didn’t diminish the dread curling in the pit of your stomach leading up to the outing or the absolutely wiped daze in your eyes when you returned. The brutal cycle of social gathering followed by exhaustion repeated at a pace that completely obliterated any opportunity of recharging from the realm of possibilities.

You lasted a little over two months before retreating back to the familiar routine of walking home with Wonwoo to decompress after the long school day. The frequency of your adventures out with your friends reduced to a few a month, which was way more manageable for your limited social battery. Wonwoo hadn’t brought up the short-lived attempt, instead resuming the pattern of meeting up at the side entrance where towering trees cast shadows that spilled out across the concrete, the occasional splatter of sunlight poking through the branches. The conversation always flowed naturally with him, from goofy things your classmates did to the books you were reading lately (“You already bought it? Nice! Can I read it after you?” “Yeah, just don’t tell Jun I gave it to you. He already asked to borrow it, but you read faster than him.” “You’re my most favorite person in the whole world, Wonwoo.” “I know.”)

It was here that you determined that you and Wonwoo were each other’s safe space.

Not long after, Wonwoo’s baby fat disappeared from his face nearly overnight, replaced by a sharp jawline and a thin, long nose that accentuated the intensity of his eyes. He sprouted up at an alarming rate in comparison to his peers and, despite his willowy bone structure, he began to unintentionally intimidate others. It could be attributed to your shy disposition, but if you hadn’t already known Wonwoo before, you didn’t think you would have had the courage to approach him either. A laughable notion, really, considering how timid and gentle-hearted he was. Still, while he didn’t comment on his newly-perceived scariness, you knew he wasn’t exactly fond of his reputation.

You had the kind of friendship where you did small favors for each other all the time, so you decided to work your magic.

If your classmates saw a little bit of his less guarded side, maybe it would help him seem more approachable. After all, fear comes from the unknown, and Wonwoo didn’t readily disclose much about himself. No matter; you figured things could only go up from here.

“Do you want to eat lunch together tomorrow?” You glanced to your side where he was walking at a comfortable pace, carefully observing for slight changes in his expression or body language that indicated he wasn’t feeling up to it.

“I need to finish my Korean homework.” The subject wasn’t difficult for either of you, but Wonwoo tended to leave it until the class period before it was due. While you admired the confidence, you couldn’t stand the apprehension repeatedly ringing the doorbell of your subconscious when you had an incomplete assignment.

“We can work on it together.” You tried again, this time earning Wonwoo’s mildly suspicious gaze. Despite recently getting a hair cut, Wonwoo’s fringe grew at a quick pace and was already a few inches shy of completely concealing his forehead. Due to his grown out fringe, you couldn’t see his eyebrows, but you knew there was a furrow to them that wondered what you were up to.

“I guess we can do it tonight then.” He relented despite knowing you’d completed the assignment in class today. Wonwoo studied your face for a few beats, not understanding your unusual demand to spend the lunch period together. Were you overwhelmed by your rowdier friends? Was someone being an ass to you? Sure, you were pretty bashful when given attention, but you weren’t the type to let someone walk all over you. If it was too much, you’d tell someone before it escalated. Wonwoo decided to drop the matter and wait until tomorrow’s lunch period to press further.

You sat on the floor of his living room that evening, Wonwoo’s gangly legs folded crisscross on a plush floor pillow while you laid on your stomach just out of arm’s reach. He used a textbook as a flat surface to write on and you pretended to double, triple, and quadruple check that your answers were, in fact, correct for a subject you had a perfect grade in. In reality, you were performing mental gymnastics to solve Wonwoo’s predicament. You doubted eating lunch together would really improve his reputation significantly, especially since you were far from being the poster child for outgoing. Inviting him to join your friends was out of the question—they were too much even for you sometimes and you would never subject him to that. Maybe there was something he could at least enjoy doing that would earn him some positive PR.

“What?” He demanded, lips pursed slightly as he caught your attention on him and not the homework spread out on the floor before you. You just smiled in response, a cheeky little grin that Wonwoo could not for the life of him discern meaning from. All he knew was that you were definitely plotting and that he’d just have to accept that he was going to be along for the ride.

“You should check number four again.” Wonwoo advised.

“It’s right.” You responded blithely, not bothering to glance back at the worksheet.

“You sure about that decimal placement?” He prodded further, pressing his lips together in a thin line to stamp out the smile that threatened to break out.

“Uh-huh,” You insisted, just as unshakable as always. You batted your eyes a few times before grinning a little toothier than usual. “Are you done yet? You swore you’d play New Leaf with me.”

The impatient tilt of your head and the thrum of your fingers on your folded up arms was entertaining. Wonwoo smirked before turning his attention back to his already completed assignment. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna go play with your brother.” You pushed yourself up to your knees, already bouncing up to stretch out your ankles. “Bohyuk! Wanna pl—“

Just as quick as you’d called for his brother, Wonwoo’s hands flung out, palms up in surrender and nose scrunched up in distaste. “I was kidding! Don’t invite that.”

Lunch the following day was peaceful— uneventful even— as you spread out the contents of your lunchbox as fair game and Wonwoo followed suit. You peeked up at him while he helped himself to the meat in your container, fidgeting with the strap that held your lunchbox closed and twirling it around your pointer fingers. Just before you could open your mouth to begin the conversation, Wonwoo beat you to it.

“How are your friends?” He questioned, expression trained neutral, seemingly in the interest of making small talk. Wonwoo fishing for information was about as subtle as a brick wall, but you seemed to perk up at the topic. Unknowingly, he’d made this much easier for you to bring up. The lanky fool had played right into your hands.

“Great!” You chirped, eyes bright as you leaned across the table towards him. “One of them asked about you actually! Wants to know if you’d play basketball with him.”

This is so not where Wonwoo thought this conversation was going. Still, he decided to entertain the idea since you seemed excited about it.

“Which friend?” He asked tentatively, utensils resting on his lunch box. He fought the urge to scrunch his nose up in distaste, lest he clue you in that he was planning on declining.

You blinked a few times, buying yourself a couple seconds to formulate your answer so it wouldn’t result in an immediate refusal. “Um, you know the tall, goofy one who choked when he tried to drink milk through his nose becau—“

“Mingyu plays basketball?” Wow, Mingyu had really made a name for himself and hey! That wasn’t an outright no! Sure, he was a bit of a dumbass at times, but he was a good friend and fun to be around. In small doses. Spaced out. Super spaced out.

He’d love Wonwoo!

And Wonwoo would… probably be okay.

“Yeah! He really wants another person to play with and you’re pretty good.” You were laying it on thick with the compliments, fanning the flame of his ego to convince him that this commitment would result in absolutely no regrets. Your hands balled into tight fists as you stared at Wonwoo hopefully, the reflection of the sunlight gleaming in your eyes.

His mouth pursed in contemplation and a thick silence blanketed the air in the room. Then, he retrieved his abandoned chopsticks from their place balanced on the edge of his lunch box and breathed out, “Alright” before digging back into your lunch.

With a satisfied nod, you scooped up your own set of chopsticks and immediately delved into the spinach salad Wonwoo packed. You hummed appreciatively, the corners of your lips tilting up in a satisfied smile.

In the following weeks, Wonwoo joined Mingyu a few times a week on the basketball court. Just as you suspected, learning that the tall, reserved, and intimidating looking Wonwoo enjoyed basketball was enough for your classmates to drop the narrative that he was unapproachable. That said— his social circle didn’t expand much, but he was quite compatible with Mingyu. The slight tension in his shoulders relaxed and the tightness of his jaw released once he wasn’t overly conscious of how other people perceived his choice to keep to himself.

Another unexpected outcome of this development was that when club activities became mandatory, Wonwoo didn’t have to agonize over what club to choose. He and Mingyu signed up for basketball together without much thought.

Meanwhile, you joined the volleyball club. In all honesty, Wonwoo hadn’t seen it coming. Absolutely zero shots fired about your athletic abilities, but he hadn’t seen you play. Like, ever. His loss apparently, because the team captain was over the moon about the talent you brought to the team.

“When did you start playing volleyball?” He inquired on your journey home. There was an oddly shaped jumble of unease that fought for space in his chest against his ribcage at the realization that there was something about you he didn’t know. He was an observant person. How could he not know that he had been friends with an ace volleyball player for this long? It was a major blow to his pride.

“I never really played,” You began your explanation with a light shrug of your shoulders. “Like, I helped a friend practice a ton and learned something I guess.” You reasoned uncertainly, a contemplative tilt of your head as you didn’t quite comprehend this skill you possessed out of left field.

Oh, okay. So he wasn’t inattentive. You were just a fucking prodigy. Good to know.

“Let me know when you have a match.” Your eyes darted to his at the unexpected request and Wonwoo curled his hands into the long sleeves of his jacket before continuing. “I want to see you play.”

He locked his gaze in front of him, unable to gather the wits to gauge your reaction. His round glasses had slipped further down his nose than he preferred them, but he made no effort to correct their resting place. Wonwoo’s vision had always been complete garbage, and the time he spent focused on video games had not served his eyesight for the better. His glasses were cute though, and you’d told him as much the first time he wore them around you. Overall, he felt neutral about his frames, but being able to clearly see the board at the front of the classroom, the leaves on trees, and the smaller details of your face he hadn’t noticed without them were enough to convince him to wear them consistently. (“Since when did you have like, individual eyelashes?” “You mean like, how everyone does?” “… Huh.” “You knew people have individual lashes. Wonwoo, you knew people have individual lashes, right?”)

“Okay.” You agreed easily, pressing your lips together lightly to stamp out the smile threatening to curl the corners of your mouth.

The attention awarded to you for joining club volleyball came from not just your own class, but others too. If you were aware of any of it, Wonwoo noted no indication of it— as far as he could tell, you loved the purely recreational sport and that was that. He didn’t doubt that you were a wonderful player, but a lot of the attention had been created by your team captain who missed no opportunity to boast about his team in general. According to other classmates, you more than lived up to the hype and Wonwoo wanted to see this unexplored side of you and support it.

It quickly became evident that other people were interested in seeing unexplored sides of you as well.

In a completely unsubtle way that only Mingyu could manage, he asked Wonwoo during basketball practice if you were talking to anyone.

“How would I know?” Wonwoo scrunched his nose in bewilderment. “She’s in volleyball now, not here.” He lunged for the basketball in Mingyu’s possession, fingertips just grazing the bumpy texture before Mingyu pivoted out of reach. While Wonwoo was one of the tallest at your school, Mingyu had hit a major growth spurt early on as well and stood a couple inches above him. Where Wonwoo was more lithe in frame, Mingyu was slightly broader. It was an interesting dynamic for basketball— Wonwoo’s speed and coordination against Mingyu’s strength and stamina— but it made the game entertaining.

An impatient groan ripped out of Mingyu, his head tossed back in irritation. “No, you—“ He sucked in a grounding breath, gathering his remaining shreds of sanity. In this moment, Wonwoo nabbed the ball from Mingyu, tauntingly bouncing it close enough to lure him to make a grab for it. “I mean like, does she like anyone? And I mean like like.” He quickly added on the clarification, unwilling to sit through Wonwoo’s journey of comprehension.

Wonwoo ceased dribbling, straightening up. He lifted a hand to dab at the sweat pooling around his temple and slicking his hair to his forehead to process the question. “How come?” He inspected Mingyu, a defensive edge narrowing his eyes and hardening his gaze. It was different from the steely quality he possessed while playing— while that one was impartial, this one was more personal and unnerving.

“A guy— well, a couple guys wanted to know.” Mingyu shrugged off the imposing weight of his stare, carefully noting Wonwoo’s reactions in turn. Wonwoo could tell by the twitch of his mouth and the rigidness of his spine that Mingyu wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. Smart.

“She’s not interested.” End of conversation. Wonwoo resumed dribbling, faking the intent to try and weave past Mingyu’s arm that belatedly stretched out to block him, only to take the shot from right there over Mingyu’s head.

A clean shot.

“Man!” Mingyu whined, shaking his head in a way that spoke of betrayal and heartbreak. “Cold blooded.”

At least— Wonwoo thought you weren’t interested.

“You go on ahead,” You waved him forward, the strap of your school bag slipping off your shoulder and into the crook of your elbow. “I have a quick thing to do.”

Wonwoo turned back to face you, fists squeezed deep in his jacket pockets where his hand warmers were nestled. You hadn’t made plans with your friends— you would have left from school with them if you had. Were you meeting someone?

“I’ll come with.” Your eyes shifted nervously to the side and your teeth dug into your bottom lip. The tip of your nose was bitten red from the wind and your entire form quivered from the sting of the cold.

“It’s okay, I’ll be quick.” You tried again, gesturing over your shoulder toward the way you were headed. Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed at your blatant attempts at evasion. It was fine if you were going to see someone, he just would rather you be upfront about it instead of hiding it from him. You didn’t keep each other in the dark and you certainly didn’t avoid each other either.

“Then let’s be quick.” Wonwoo insisted, already striding in the direction of your detour. You begrudgingly relented, huffing irritably and shuffling quickly to pass him and lead the way.

Wonwoo blinked at you, really wondering if his vision was actually bad enough to flat out hallucinate. He anxiously glanced around at the (blessedly) mostly empty store and back to your form seated on the tile floor in the aisle. Like, not even crouched to look at something stocked at the lower level— no, ass fully sat on the linoleum.

“What are you doing?” He breathed out, weight shifting back and forth between his feet nervously. You scrunched your long sock as far down toward your ankle as it would go, a handful of display products balanced in your hand in addition to a dozen q-tips. Wonwoo shuffled closer to you in an attempt to conceal your at best questionable behavior from the sole employee occupied with her phone at the checkout counter and the few wandering customers. From above, he observed you pop the lid of a tester, carefully collect some product with the q-tip, and hunch over to swipe it just above your ankle bone.

“Hey,” He hissed then, jerkily nudging you with his knee as a demand for your attention and answer.

“It’ll leave a stain on my wrist and I’ll get caught.” You explained, unwilling to be more cooperative with the guy who refused to let you make this trip solo. You tried to get him to go home, and now he had to live with his conces quencing. Neither of the two colors you tried so far stirred anything in your heart. You discarded the q-tip in the waste bin stationed near you and repeated your process.

“It’ll leave a stain when you wear it and you’ll get caught.” Wonwoo reasoned, a desperate clip to his tone.

“Not if I find one that’s close to my lip color.” You denied reality. Wonwoo paused for a brief moment to consider whether or not you heard yourself. There was nothing really wrong with shopping for a tinted lip balm (even though he would prefer you to do it standing— you know, be socially acceptable and all that), but your school didn’t allow students to wear makeup. When were you even going to use this? You’d never even expressed interest in makeup until today. Once again, nothing criminal, but completely out of the blue.

“Why do you want that?” Wonwoo prodded in an effort to understand the mental gymnastics of it all. If he was being honest, he was still stuck on you seated on the floor.

“‘Cause if it’s close to my lip color, I might not be—“

“No,” He interrupted, pressing his fingers slightly below a brow to ease the beginnings of a pulsing headache away. He was abruptly empathetic to Mingyu for some inexplicable reason. “Like, why do you want it in general?”

“I don’t,” You began, attention fixed on the array of products gathered before you. Wonwoo still hovered behind you, waiting for the remainder of your reason. “I don’t like how I look after volleyball.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Because literally who did you know that looked good after club sports? Disheveled and out of breath was kind of the standard across the board. Also, he saw you right after clubs finished to walk home together everyday. You looked fine. Sure, not quite as put together as you were during classes, but your mussed hair and flushed cheeks were kind of charming— lively and youthful, even. The only people who even saw you were your teammates and him, so—

And Mingyu’s conversation from the basketball court snapped the missing puzzle pieces into place. Multiple guys were interested in you and were sneaking in to watch you practice. They were going as far to ask around about you, to the extent that they’d approached Mingyu to really approach him and dig for information about you. There was no way your social butterfly of a team captain hadn’t clocked it and immediately leaped at the opportunity to fill you in.

Did you like, like one of them?

“Trying to impress someone?” Wonwoo prodded, not quite successful in keeping the judgement at bay. His teeth grit together, trying to maintain a neutral expression despite you facing away from him. All at once, he wished that he could see your expression while simultaneously feeling relieved that he couldn’t.

“No, I just don’t like people staring at me when I look like that.” You fiddled with the lid of the lip balm, snapping it in and out of the closure groove.

So you were aware of the attention— too aware of it, in fact.

For someone so uncomfortable with other peoples’ gazes, you sure weren’t doing you— or him for that matter— any favors by parking yourself on the floor of a beloved cosmetic store in the early evening. But now was not the time to vocalize that thought when he had just scraped an insecurity out of you with about as much tenderness as he would have used trying to knock out the last bit of peanut butter from the bottom of the jar. So yeah, he was going to keep that one in the drafts for now.

There also wasn’t really any way for him to solve your problem. When it came down to it, insecurities were a battle fought with yourself. He doubted that anything he said or did would really resolve your feelings about yourself. That being said, he wasn’t going to withhold his thoughts or actions that might encourage the feelings to fade. He was also more than willing to hold the door open for them to leave and slam it shut on their way out.

Fuck the dumbasses who kept sneaking in to watch you practice and ignoring the fact that they were making you uncomfortable. And a little bit fuck your team captain too for allowing it to happen and even somewhat encouraging the behavior.

Wonwoo squatted down, hooking his large hands under your elbows, and scooped you into a standing position despite your bewildered fumbling. Once you were hauled up to your full height and turned around to face him, he abandoned his purchase on your elbows in favor of sandwiching your cheeks between his warm palms. Or maybe it was your cheeks that were warm? Either way, you were focused on him, maintaining eye contact for the first time since you’d left school that day. Wonwoo lightly shook your head, your cheeks squishing and eyes scrunching closed under his ambush. Once he was satisfied with his work, he stopped, waiting until your eyes blinked away the disorientation and opened to settle on him again.

“You’re pretty.”

It was quick, definitive, and without room for discussion. Before you could even fully process the previous five seconds, Wonwoo cut off any protests, hiking up his long sleeve on one arm to reveal a forearm splotched with a particularly nasty navy colored bruise.

“Ah, shit.” He tugged his sleeve back down over his knuckles, then switched to his other unblemished forearm. Both him and Mingyu were pretty abrasive basketball players and, with their combined lankiness and Mingyu’s net negative coordination due to his lack of spatial awareness, elbows and hands were destined to smack into the wrong places.

“Here.” Wonwoo extended his arm out to you. “They don’t check guys for makeup because they’re sexist.”

You stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief. After a brief nod of encouragement, you quickly resumed your work. Your hand cradled his forearm, holding it steady as you brushed on ascending lines of lip product, tinting his skin various shades of pink. His skin was hot under your touch and felt fuzzier than the cotton swab. Eventually, after waffling between two shades that were essentially the same but actually just slightly different, you landed on your choice.

Wonwoo went to school the following day with an impressive gallery of stains streaked up his arm underneath his jacket, but only the two of you knew that.

You were caught wearing the tinted lip balm before the end of first period, your homeroom teacher demanding you scrub it off with a tissue. And as you inspected your appearance in the bathroom mirror, lips bare, there was an absence of inadequacy burrowing in your chest, instead replaced by a peaceful indifference. When you returned to class, the self-conscious slouch anchoring your arms to your sides had dissolved, but only the two of you noticed that.

Your team captain insisted that practices from now on be closed off to visitors, slamming the doors to the gym shut with no consideration for the students trying to sit in. He reasoned that the other students were a distraction and that if they were that interested in volleyball, then tryouts were scheduled for the third week of the next semester.

Wonwoo had been the one to make this request, but only he and your captain knew that.

Old habits either die hard or they don’t die at all, because even in university, your tradition of walking home together persisted. Freshman orientation was essentially hazing for introverts, and your silly orientation leaders decided to host a dinner for the incoming class— a thinly-veiled excuse to get fucking hammered beyond coherent speech. Plus, the schadenfreude of watching a group of kids experience their first and absolute worst time consuming alcohol was too good for them to pass up.

A little over an hour into the mandatory event, you were so beyond over the whole thing. You’d eaten your fill and stopped politely laughing at the upperclassmen who thought they were just so charming at least thirty minutes ago. Drinking was, as you expected, over-encouraged and heavily pressured. At one of the mentors’ insistence, you knocked a shot or two back and sent him stumbling back to the end of the table furthest away from you. It wasn’t your first time consuming alcohol, and you had no intention of exceeding your limit around a bunch of strangers. As far as you were concerned, they could suck it.

Wonwoo sat across from you, usually sharp eyes glazed over at an autographed picture on the wall of someone famous posing with the owner of the restaurant, jolly grins and peace signs thrown up. You shifted your weight, shuffling around in your seat to generate just enough movement in Wonwoo’s field of vision to snap his brain back from outer space. His blurred eyes honed in on you— he hadn’t participated in drinking with the upperclassmen either, also disinterested in drinking in the unfamiliar environment, yet cursed to exist in the moment all the same.

Slowly, intentionally, you blinked twice.

Want to ditch?

Wonwoo tilted his head to one side in what could have easily been a stretch of his neck.

Fuckin’ yeah, I do.

You pursed your lips, eyes flickering once to the door and back to him.

Sensational. At the same time.

Less then two seconds later, Wonwoo raised to his full hight while you swung your legs to the aisle created by the two long tables. He half-heartedly nodded to a few of the people around him that noticed he had stood, and you successfully slipped into an opening. Now that you were on your feet, the alcohol diffused to the rest of your limbs and head quicker than you anticipated— nothing concerning, you were just a little more buzzed than you planned to be. What a fantastic indicator that it was time to pack it up. With a brief flash of a smile and farewell to the kind-enough girl next to you, you made your swift exit to where Wonwoo waited for you at the end of the aisle.

The most genuine smile you had seen from him all evening quirked the corner of his lips up, and the dim, yellow lighting in the restaurant cast a warm glow in his dark eyes. He’d left his hair more rumpled than usual today, the gentle waves softened his appearance a bit, but still accentuated the crisp angles of his cheeks, jaw, and eyes. Gone were the last bits of gangly, awkward teenage proportions, instead developing into striking features of a charming young man. Since senior year of high school, Wonwoo had only sprung further upward, although unlike his middle school growth spurt, he had actually broadened considerably this time. The thing was— Wonwoo was kind of a walking dichotomy. He preferred oversized clothing that concealed the lines of his frame— it completely fooled everyone into thinking he was pretty lanky, but you knew that to be completely false. His form was large and imposing, both in height and broadness, but the changes in his build were only obvious when you stood this close to him. He chose to wear an oversized grey sweatshirt this evening that you’d seen many times before. The sleeves were stretched out from his tendency to tug them over his hands.

You trailed behind him as he blazed the path to the door. Wonwoo pushed the door open, a rush of biting night air dropping your internal temperature substantially. He stepped outside, holding the door open for you to pass through. Just as you moved to cross the threshold, the girl that sat next to you called out, “Get home safely!” You turned to acknowledge her, and your coordination must have been more influenced than you had initially realized, because your foot caught on the ledge protruding from the doorframe. You gasped and braced for unforgiving concrete and a banger of a concussion during syllabus week.

Wonwoo lunged— legitimately lunged— to secure your shoulders in his arms. The back of your head thudded against his chest and your back flattened against his torso. Your fingers latched onto Wonwoo’s sturdy arms suspending you just above the concrete and you huffed in deep breaths to regain your bearings. Holy shit.

“You okay?” Wonwoo’s round glasses had shifted down in the scuffle, balanced precariously at the tip of his nose.

Still disoriented and searching for your center of gravity, you breathed out, “Yeah, yeah— I’m okay.”

Gingerly, Wonwoo straightened into an upright position, bringing you with him. To your credit, you only fumbled slightly when searching for purchase with the soles of your shoes.

“Go a little too hard a little too fast?” He was joking, poking lighthearted fun at the circumstances of the entirely avoidable situation. His hesitant grin was partially contained by residual concern for your physical wellbeing— sure, he’d saved you from a cold greeting courtesy of the concrete, but did you twist your ankle on the ledge?

“Should’ve gone faster, harder.” You quipped, giggling at the absurdity of the last three hours. Wonwoo squatted down beside you, carefully taking your hand nearest to him and guiding it to rest on his shoulder for stability in the event that you toppled over for a second time that night. Despite the chill of the air seeping through your clothing, an unfamiliar heat sweltered in your bones. You wondered if Wonwoo could feel it pulsing at your fingertips where they pressed into the well-worn material of his sweatshirt, but his attention was preoccupied with your ankle. The bottom of your pant leg was rolled up a few times, and Wonwoo’s long, slender fingers prodded at the exposed skin with a tenderness that absorbed the strength in your knees— you’d have fully buckled onto his broad shoulder had you been fueled by anything other than spite to remain standing.

“How does this feel?” He peered up at you, the question visible in his dark eyes, all the while smoothing languid circles into your ankle with his thumb the same way he toggled on his game controller. The weight of his gaze seemed foreign, not quite suffocating, but somewhat sultry. It was an oddly sensual moment, and you didn’t know what to make of that. Probably the alcohol doing its rose-tinted thing.

“It feels good.” You answered more truthfully than he would ever know. But the street outside a restaurant overflowing with your peers was not the place to unpack that. He unrolled your pant leg, tugging it back into place before standing again and insisting that you two get going and escape the cold. You weren’t cold, and you could make out the slight glow of sweat on Wonwoo’s skin, but you chalked it up to the exertion of his impressive dive mere minutes ago.

In all of the years you spent with Wonwoo, you could count the number of times he’d caught you off guard on one hand. He was a man of habit and predictability— it was familiar and cozy, and you appreciated the reliability of him. He hadn’t changed, still the same in his careful, intentional movements, but he somehow knocked you completely off-kilter that night on the sidewalk.

Metaphorically speaking, in this instance.

You, on the other hand, were a bit of a wild card in Wonwoo’s eyes. He knew you well— like he knew the layout of his house well enough to slink to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get a glass of water without flipping any lights on. But every so often, there would be something that wasn’t present before. He would smack into it, take a moment to process the new entity, maybe feel around and familiarize himself with it, and then carry on as usual. To date, the discovery that you were an excellent volleyball player remained the most prominent surprise in his memory.

Nearly two months into your freshman year of college, you blew that one out of the water.

Wonwoo approached you from behind while you were perched at one of the large desktops in the library. He could tell you had a document open— even with his shit vision, there was no mistaking that layout and that obnoxious shade of blue that triggered every students’ fight or flight instinct. But you were missing the anguish of someone writing a paper, no tense hunch to your shoulders or irritated furrow of your brow. Instead, you seemed at ease, reclining easily into the back of the chair, expression focused but neutral. Your movements were unhurried as you navigated your screen with the pitiful library mouse held together by oddly crinkled scotch tape.

What the hell were you working on?

“Hey,” He murmured in greeting, conscious of the people working around you. But then he got a glimpse of your computer screen, and in contrast to your unbothered form, Wonwoo became the embodiment of immediate, deep, bottom-of-the-soul resentment. Pulled up proudly on display were screenshots of some of the most heinous, crude, and honest to god incriminating text messages he’d ever read. His jaw clenched, teeth gritting together painfully at the unimaginably inappropriate names and descriptions littered throughout the one-sided chat. Wonwoo’s eyes pierced the name of the sender exhibited at the top of the screen like he could somehow impale them through the bubble of their initial. He didn’t know them, but he was about to. At the beginning of the thread was a single message from you, a polite and firm decline of an invitation to “hang at his place.” The animosity simmered in the pit of his stomach, boiling up his chest and scalding his throat and tongue as he snarled, “What the fuck?!”

You twisted around in your chair, taking in Wonwoo’s rare hostility and the attention it earned you from other people in the library. His low timbre was always soothing to listen to, but the abrupt change from still waters to rough husk was a commanding force.

“Hi,” You beamed up at him, eyes practically twinkling, apparently unaffected by the images on your screen.

“Who the hell is this loser?” He bit, cheekbones more angled than typical as he hollowed his cheeks. His teeth clamped down on his bottom lip, a futile attempt at keeping the malice at bay. Wonwoo was many things, but above ripping this guy a new asshole? Certainly not.

“Oh,” You swiveled to glance back at the screen, sure enough, the incel vomit remained on the monitor where you left it. With practiced ease, you quickly resized the final screenshot in the series, enlarging it to a near comical degree. “Just a silly goose.”

Wonwoo stood stewing in silence as you clicked file and selected print with a too-cheerful click of the barely-holding-on mouse. He had maybe just short of a million questions firing rapidly internally. How did you even meet this guy? Did you have classes with him? Where did he live? Was he deathly allergic to anything? No, not for any particular reason, just curious. Does he walk home alone at night? How long had he been bothering you?

The only question he managed to voice was, “Why are you making these, like, gigantic?”

That was when he noticed that the sparkle in your eyes this entire time had been mischief. The grin you flashed was significantly wider than your natural smile, and possessed a rascality he hadn’t seen you wear before. It looked sickly saccharine and promised chaos. You looked ferocious. It looked good on you.

“How else is his grandmother gonna read it?”

Wonwoo’s heart swelled with pride. It pumped into the organ until it reached its maximum capacity and expanded until his chest ached in elation. Of course you were going to rock this guy’s shit. And in front of his family no less. Wonwoo physically could not contain the cackles that erupted from the bottom of his stomach, folding over at the waist from the force. He clutched at your shoulders in an attempt to remain standing and gasped in shuddering breaths. Eyes crinkled closed, nose scrunched upward, and smile lines on display, Wonwoo seemed to have unlocked a new level of joy.

“You are just fucking magnificent.” He praised in adoration, planting an affectionate kiss on your forehead. You short-circuited at the warmth that bloomed from the press of his lips on your skin.

This was new. You weren’t even sure it actually happened for a few beats, convincing yourself you’d simply imagined Wonwoo bending over you in the library to kiss you. Wonwoo kissed you. Like it was normal. And you couldn’t short-circuit in front on him because then it wouldn’t be normal.

Rapidly, you snapped back into the moment, coyly tucking your loose hair behind your ear. “Aren’t I just?” A large hand buried itself in your hair at the top of your head, giving it a playful ruffle. Wonwoo smoothed out the bumps he had created immediately after, delicately combing his fingers through and working out the minor tangles.

He was still going to rip this guy a new asshole.

After the incident outside the restaurant and especially after the moment in the library, there was an obvious shift in the dynamic of your relationship. Or maybe your relationship had changed before then and you just hadn’t picked up on it. Because while you were second guessing every action, word, and expression, Wonwoo seemed entirely in his element— unfazed even. It seemed that kissing your best friend was an entirely normal thing for him to do, despite having never done it before and generally not being all that open to physical affection.

You didn’t want to be uncomfortable around Wonwoo— he had been your safe space for as long as you could remember. But the once-clear waters of your relationship had turned murky and tricky to navigate. More disorienting was the fact that Wonwoo wasn’t uncomfortable. At least if he had been, you could acknowledge whatever this weird, new thing was and figure this out together. But you couldn’t bring it up like this and risk Wonwoo denying that anything was different between the two of you.

Things were different though. Like, was Wonwoo auditioning for the role of boyfriend or something? Because while he had always been attentive, things were escalating at a dizzying, heart-fluttering pace.

Wonwoo seemed to always have a hair tie around his wrist— always had since he witnessed you struggle to eat without your hair slipping into your face when you were kids and heard you grumble that you forgot one for volleyball. He’d offer you the hair tie and you’d gush out something appreciative along the lines of, “As expected, you’d never let me down.” Even now, he’d unhook the elastic from his wrist on particularly windy days, or when he’d watched you toss your hair back one too many times when you were studying, presenting it to you in his outstretched palm. You hadn’t thought much of the sweet gesture until now.

The escalation of this routine came when Wonwoo began tying your hair for you, wordlessly gathering your hair with long, nimble fingers and securing it low and loose out of your way; he always avoided wrapping it too tightly or too high, anxious of causing you a tension headache. The brush of his warm hands always brought you back to where you sat in the library, processing his kiss and affectionate touches. The tips of his fingers would sweep the sensitive skin of your neck from behind and you would still, anticipating the pressure of his lips against your heated skin again. But it never happened.

Overall, Wonwoo was more touchy lately— not exactly a high hurdle— and you just didn’t know how to act. You know— other than soak it up. You were more than receptive to being spoiled by his physical affection, be it platonic or romantic. After fumbling through the first week of the new development of sides pressed together, tender hands brushing hair out of your face, and the light pressure of his chin resting atop your head when he approached you from behind, you decided to return it enthusiastically and see if you could finally force Wonwoo’s hand.

You found him reading while leaving one of your classes, his form relaxed on one of the benches that lined the courtyard. His neck was craned down, attention focused on his class reading, expression neutral. Despite still being deemed intimidating and off-putting by those who never spoke to him, Wonwoo was undeniably dashing in his quiet confidence. The sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw only became more accentuated during college (perhaps a result of the poor college student diet) and his already-penetrating eyes intensified when he chose to forego glasses for contacts— which wasn’t very often.

You detoured out of his line of vision to close in on his back, careful to keep your steps light. Successfully avoiding popping him out of his study bubble, you looped your arms over his wide shoulders, leaned into his back, and chimed his name in greeting. Immediately, he tilted his head up to meet your eyes with a lopsided grin, his eyes twinkling knowingly— Wonwoo could smell your shampoo wafting in the comfortable breeze as you neared. Now, with the close contact of your skin, he could smell the light moisturizer you had used since you were in middle school. He permitted himself a deep inhale, reveling in the clean, fresh scent.

“Hey,” He greeted, voice low and clear. The faint wind ruffled his hair— he had allowed it to grow longer than it’d ever been before, which still wasn’t very long, but the waves grazed his eyes in airy wisps. “Good class?”

You hummed affirmatively, taking the opportunity to card your fingers through his tousled hair with a practiced ease like you’d done it for as long as you’d known him. He dissolved into your touch, clicking his tablet off and trading his classwork for your attention.

“Vibe night?” He asked like you had ever previously declined or planned to decline a night spent relaxing together at one of your places. It was just like how you would retreat home from school to one of your living rooms to do homework, read, play video games, or whatever in each other’s presence growing up. The escalation here yet again entailed increased physical contact and noticeably domestic undertones. Some days you’d accompany one another grocery shopping for dinner and snacks before kicking the night off.

On days where the academic grind had vacuumed the life force out of the both of you, it was a detour to a restaurant to get takeout. You had your go-to spots that you rotated through, dependent on the weather and your moods. By now, the employees recognized your pair and your typical orders. One of the last times you’d visited during midterms two weeks back, the elderly owner of the Thai restaurant had been delighted when you stepped in, announcing joyfully that you had visited on couples night so he threw a dessert on the house into your to-go bag.

It wasn’t uncommon for the nature of your relationship to be misunderstood, so you began to gently correct the well-meaning man with a polite smile. Before you uttered a syllable, Wonwoo’s deep voice vibrated beside you, graciously thanking the owner and fluidly swiping the paper bag from the counter where your hand was stretched to curl around the handle. Instead, Wonwoo’s large hand not occupied with the to-go bag enveloped yours and on instinct, your fingers squeezed around his.

With a farewell and another ‘thank you so much!’ the two of you exited the restaurant hand-in-hand. You expected him to drop the act and by extension your hand once you were a decent distance away from the windows, but Wonwoo kept your hand secured in his the entire walk home— which you would never complain about. The temperature had dropped for the season and the sun had already set under the horizon, so you would soak up the extra warmth emitting from your joined hands, burrowed into his jacket pocket. You could always rely on Wonwoo to purchase the coziest clothing, always fleecy and pleasant against your skin. His coat did not disappoint, the fuzzy lining offering you an excuse for how overheated you felt with your hand engulfed in his.

But that was two weeks ago when you were still flustered by Wonwoo’s abrupt swell of affection. If you were being entirely honest, his affection still shot prickles down your spine and numbed your fingertips, but you at least knew to expect it by now. Now it was a matter of being capable of having the same effect on him.

“You already know.” You agreed easily, before tacking on. “Whenever and however you want me.” You were absolutely referring to what time he wanted to meet up and at whose apartment, but to pass on the double entendre was a wasted opportunity. Wonwoo’s form went rigid under your touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. The ‘error 404 Wonwoo not found’ pop up was clear in his abruptly vigilant eyes. Flashing him a smile that spoke of nothing abnormal in your choice of phrase, you wished him a good class, manifested him being let out early, and blew him a kiss in farewell, a bounce in your step as you retreated.

You got him. Was it enough to convince him to make his move? You’d fuck around and find out, you supposed.

Later when Wonwoo finished his last class— from which he did get let out twenty minutes early (“You are so welcome.” “We got out because we finished his material.” “Because I’m magic. You should be super nice to me and let me choose the game.” “You can choose the game because it’s your turn, not because you’re magic.”)— he trekked to the library where you were busting out an assignment at an alarming speed to gather you for the night. You snapped your laptop shut, reaching for your bag you’d hooked on the back of your chair, only to discover Wonwoo was already holding the edges open for you. With an appreciative grin, you slipped the laptop into the padded sleeve and zipped it closed. Wonwoo fixed the straps of your bag over his shoulder, ignoring your insistence that you could carry it yourself, and together you walked to his apartment. Tonight, you didn’t hold hands on the journey and there was no fuzzy electric charge to the moment. It was as it usually was, with soft laughter and quiet recounts of your days just like it always has been.

Everything was just like was before until you entered his apartment.

Wonwoo held the door open for you to pass through the threshold, slipping in behind you and hanging both of your bags on the empty hooks lining the entrance. You wiggled out of your well-broken-in sneakers without undoing the laces and reached for the shoe cabinet by the entrance, but Wonwoo beat you to it. He crouched before the cabinet and snagged your designated pair of slippers, wordlessly placing them by your feet. Once you swapped into the slippers, he threaded two fingers under the tongues of your sneakers and neatly set them in the cabinet. Then, he followed suit and changed into his house shoes. It was hardly anything out of character for Wonwoo—he was always considerate, but your blood pulsed ferociously in the veins of your wrists at the small gesture.

It would have made sense to venture into the apartment instead of remaining in the entryway, but you stayed and watched as Wonwoo turned to face you. Your eyes met and the static charge returned to your fingertips. You swore his eyes darkened as they flickered further down your face. The limited space of the alcove demanded you hover in each other’s personal space close enough for a slight shift in your weight to force you to unintentionally brush against each other. The slightest touch would result in a static shock, you were positive. Wonwoo hovered closer and your breath was trapped at the top of your throat— if he adjusted the angle of his head, then he’d—

“Hungry?” He murmured, low tone fluttering in the pit of your stomach. “There’s some of the spinach salad in the fridge.”

Fuck auditioning for the role of boyfriend— this man was fully auditioning for the role of husband. Acts of service and making sure you were fed? Sold! To the man with abysmal eyesight and the instinct to anticipate your needs!

Unfortunately, you were far too queasy to trust yourself to eat anything at the moment. A damn shame, because you really did love his family’s spinach salad. “Later,” You promised. He didn’t press the matter despite knowing you hadn’t eaten since early that morning due to your packed class schedule. Nodding in agreement, Wonwoo pressed a large, warm hand to the small of your back, encouraging you into the apartment.

Immediately, you padded over to the large couch in the living room, folding up into your corner and snatching your emotional support circular throw pillow to rest your wrists on while you gamed. Wonwoo passed by the entertainment center, retrieving your designated controllers from the cabinet and waking the docked Nintendo Switch before heading toward the couch. He maneuvered around an arm chair, nabbing the throw blanket draped over the back. Once close enough, Wonwoo settled the fuzzy blanket across your lap, fixing the areas that bunched up, and then passed you your controller.

The blanket hadn’t always been a fixture of the living room. It was during your third time over at Wonwoo’s apartment when the two of you were watching the last few episodes of a drama when Wonwoo noticed you curled up and shivering. You’d intentionally worn long sleeves that day because the apartment was a freezer box— full blame on Wonwoo’s roommate who liked to live in the arctic— but it wasn’t sufficient to shield you from the unrelentingly glacial winds generated by the air conditioning. The last time you were over and frostbitten, Wonwoo had swaddled you in one of his oversized sweatshirts that smelled like freshly-washed laundry and a hint of something muskier. The cuffs were stretched to conceal your hands, likely from Wonwoo repeatedly tugging the fabric over his own hands when he wore it. When he heaved himself off the couch and disappeared into the hallway, you expected him to return with another one of his sweaters, but instead he brought back a crème colored blanket that he’d evidently just bought based on the tag he wound around his fingers to tug off with a snap of his wrist.

“Sorry, I forgot.” He smiled, a little sheepish, and handed you the blanket.

Ever since, the blanket had been yours. Its home was in the living room of Wonwoo’s apartment, waiting for your return.

Now, he dropped into his place on the couch cushion next to you. With a few rapid clicks of his thumb, the jingle of the Nintendo Home Screen sounded through the speaker system. Already queued into the first slot was Animal Crossing because it was your pick tonight, and you’d always pick Animal Crossing. It was here that you knew that Wonwoo was always a couple paces ahead of you, and he always knew what you needed.

He sensed the weight of your unwavering gaze and turned his attention toward you, about to ask you something, but the words died before he could even think them into existence. The controller he gave you sat abandoned at your side, your hands instead curled into the throw pillow resting on your thighs. Wonwoo was always ahead of you, perceptive of your every need. The slight tremble of your bottom lip, the glassy haze in your eyes, and the shallow rise and fall of your chest told him exactly what you needed then. He wouldn’t make you ask twice.

After carefully depositing his controller on the coffee table, Wonwoo shifted toward you, keeping his attention on your eyes in search of any indicator that you wanted out. He’d back away if you wanted, go back to lounging on the couch and playing video games with you if you gave so much as a hint that it was what you wanted.

You didn’t. A comforting hand that had held yours in his jacket pocket for warmth, combed through your hair to tie it out of your face, and hoisted you up from the floor of a cosmetic store gently settled at the back of your head— his hands were always big and safe. You curved your lips into a small, reassuring smile, and Wonwoo understood. In a split second, his free hand snatched his thin, round glasses from their perch of his nose and tossed them onto the coffee table. Then, your eyes fluttered shut and he closed the distance.

The static sensation returned full force, numbing your body with that fuzzy feeling that made you lightheaded, but you could still feel Wonwoo. Everywhere he touched sparked your nerves back into functioning condition. You could feel his safe hand resting on your waist and the heat diffusing from it, gently rubbing small circles into your skin with his thumb— just like he had done to your ankle. You could feel the confident force of his lips on yours, firm and slow, like he was savoring you, drawing out the moment for as long as he’d waited for it— he’d stay here with you for even longer than he’d waited if you wanted. You wouldn’t stop him. Trading your purchase on the pillow for the shoulders of Wonwoo’s dark blue sherpa jacket, you tried to pull him closer, unsatisfied with how distant you felt despite your physical contact. Wonwoo seemed to agree with the sentiment, slightly pulling back from your lips so that your noses still lightly grazed with every minuscule shift.

Your eyes blinked open when you registered his sturdy arm coil around your back, only to fall breathless again. His sharp eyes possessed an intensity you hadn’t seen him wear before. It wasn’t intimidating, but your skin flushed at the fervor. His usually neat enough dark waves were fluffed up; you hadn’t realized you’d done it in the moment, but one of your hands had languidly trailed up the back of his scalp moments ago. With slick coordination that surfaced every so often, Wonwoo slightly lifted you, slipping beneath you and settling you in his lap. Much better.

You discarded the fuzzy blanket pooled on your lap off to the side—you appreciated Wonwoo’s sweet gesture, but it was only in the way now. He reclined into the back of the couch and you swayed right after him, abdomen flushed against him and your arms looping behind his neck. His build really was a whole lot more athletic than you realized now that you rested on his powerful thighs and his firm back shuddered under your palms. Wonwoo tilted his head up and to the side, a lopsided smile quirking the corner of his mouth, gums just barely peaking out— his bottom lip was more pigmented and puffier than usual. His high cheekbones glowed in the dimmed light from the TV, and you don’t think you’d ever seen him so rugged before. The expression could have been mistaken for being haughty— you knew him better than that though. It was still that same smile that spoke to his softhearted nature, the one that had him doting on you as easily as he breathed. You answered his grin with an eager press of your lips, relishing in the cautious pressure of his tongue swiping across your bottom lip.

That was how Soonyoung discovered the two of you, rounding the corner that connected the hallway to the living room and damn-near smacking the back of his head on the wall in his haste to retreat. Then, Jihoon stepped out of his own room and approached him, disgruntled by Soonyoung’s hand spasming and smacking against his chest.

“Look at our boy.” He whispered, a proud gleam twinkling in his eyes, not missed by Jihoon. Uninterested, Jihoon poked his head around the corner, immediately regretting it and whirling to criticize his silly-ass roommate.

“Don’t watch them, you fucking creep.” He hissed. And with that and a nose crinkled in immense judgement, Jihoon crept back into his room, ignoring Soonyoung’s insistence that he hadn’t been watching.

“What made you tell me?” You asked, breaking the peaceful silence while you relaxed on the couch, still nestled together, then clarified. “Now, I mean.”

“I was sure you’d figure it out eventually.” Then Wonwoo huffed mirthfully at that adorably optimistic belief he held onto for over six years. “And then we were well into college and that never happened.”

Your blank stare and light press of your lips told him you were both unsatisfied with his answer and knew him well enough to call him on the probably half-true bullshit. No way did he just get impatient and go ‘fuck it.’ Unless something happened, Wonwoo was capable of waiting decades before making his move. He would have, had his instigation of increased physical affection been received uncomfortably by you. But he was always under the assumption that you weren’t interested in a romantic relationship and not that you were unaware of his long kindled affection for you.

All things said and done, there was no harm in waiting to pursue a romantic relationship with you. Wonwoo had always been a significant fixture in your life, whether his role was friend or romantic partner didn’t add or subtract from the quality of your relationship. The both of you had always had each other anyway.

“I met up with Mingyu,” Wonwoo admitted, a bashful grin tugging a corner of his lips up. “And he asked me how you were.”

You blinked, not quite following his line of reason. “Okay?”

“But he asked me like, ‘How’s your girlfriend doing?’ And I told him I hadn’t asked you out.” He spoke at a rapid fire pace, and if you hadn’t engraved his speech pattern into your chest, you would have had to ask him to repeat himself. “He lost his mind. Like, the disappointment was palpable.” He recounted with an exhausted droop of his eyelids. “Told me to pull my head out of my ass, that it was pathetic that I liked you for years and did nothing, and that he’d come visit himse—“

You stiffened at that information, interrupting him. “Wait, Mingyu knew that you liked me before I knew that you liked me?” Seriously, Kim Mingyu figured it out before you? Sure, you weren’t in grade school anymore, but according to Jihoon, Mingyu had very much not changed. (”I heard from a friend at his college that he almost choked at orientation because he tried to drink soju through his nose on a dare.”)

Wonwoo winced sympathetically, corners of his eyes crinkling in the same way they did when he physically could not contain his joy, and his hand moved to smooth the loose hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. “Yeah, I know. A bit of a low blow there, huh?” An understatement.

Your chin returned to its resting place on his chest, a self-reflective frown quirking the corners of your lips down, and sighed, “Man.”

A husky laugh huffed out through his nose before turning into hearty chuckles that heaved his chest up and down, taking your form relaxed on top of his with it. “Don’t sweat it.” Wonwoo reassured, thumb lightly brushing your cheek, a warmth in his dark eyes that you were slowly becoming familiar with seeing your reflection in. “I still love you.”

It wasn’t the first time Wonwoo had caught you off guard with his blunt delivery of significant information. He tended to come to conclusions early on and then fold them over a few times to stash them in his back pocket like he would a receipt. Out of sight, out of mind, but still always with him nonetheless. It was entirely possible that Wonwoo carried his love for you shoved deep in a nook he hadn’t paid much attention to for far longer than he, or you, or anyone realized.

Maybe he loved you when he intentionally packed a large serving of your favorite spinach salad his dad made for your scheduled lunches together in grade school. Or it could have been when Mingyu unintentionally let slip that you asked him to play basketball with him to improve his reputation. He had to have known it to be true when he willingly offered his skin as your canvas for lip products. Then it was reinforced by that abysmal orientation dinner you both bailed on. And again every time you surprised him, and when you didn’t, and he knew exactly what you were going to do or say or need. He loved you in the second controller he brought with him when he moved into his apartment, decorated with your favorite Animal Crossing villagers. He was never just giving you a blanket on the nights you spent curled up together in his apartment— he was handing you far more than that.

Wonwoo was content with you simply accepting the affection he offered, but your reciprocation was very much welcome and celebrated. With the way you cared for each other, he doubted much would change about your dynamic—he didn’t mind though. This was comfortable and warm, and as always, you were together.

You examined the lines of varying shades of pink swiped up your wrist, glistening under the fluorescent overhead light. So far, none of the swatches stirred anything in your heart. You slipped the tester back into the designated notch on the display and plucked the next one out of its home, twisting the applicator out.

A familiar hand appeared from behind you, cradling your outstretched arm in long fingers to steady it. Warmth pulsed under the pads of his fingertips and bloomed into your wrist. Wonwoo peered over your shoulder, thoughtfully surveying the array of glosses painted on your skin. Then, he tapped his index finger twice to the side of one of the samples, “I like that one.”

“Yeah?” You crane your neck to cast a coy gaze over your shoulder at him, fluttering your lashes for effect. “Buy it for me and I’ll let you kiss it off me.”

He knew you were absolutely serious by the mischievous grin and twinkle in your eyes. Wonwoo nodded in agreement, his eyes dark, and pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head. He adjusted so his lips lightly grazed the shell of your ear, sending that fuzzy feeling down your neck and spine.

“Pick three.”

“Please delete that,” Jeongin begs, voice muffled and mortified behind his hands. “Seriously, please delete that forever.”

He regrets the moment he committed to attend this cursed arts college, and he wishes he could travel back in time to rip his past self a new asshole for choosing to join the table tennis team for such a pathetic amount of scholarship money. Every single member had had the same strategy as him— they’re all athletic tragedies, so they chose the sport that no one gave a shit about. To reiterate: Jeongin attends an arts school, where athletes do not attend, so sports aren’t really a thing with the student body. He’s willing to bet all of his measly scholarship money that seventy-percent of the students don’t even know the university has a table tennis team.

… Meaning being part of the table tennis team with a bunch of losers is social suicide.

If Jeongin is being entirely honest, he has no social life outside of this ridiculous club. He fumbles every conversation, too awkward and nervous to contribute anything of substance at the right time, and his dating experience is a permanent flatline.

He is a loser. And his condition is terminal.

The downward angled selfie of him huffing and puffing his half-asleep ass to a class he had definitely been late to, wrinkled shirt and pillow lines stamped into his cheek, was blown up unnecessarily huge on Jisung’s shitty laptop— an ancient machine honest-to-god holding on with spite and a bumpy strip of duct tape. The image is not an inspiring indicator that his loser status is going to change any time soon.

Tears stream down Jisung’s reddened face from his uncontained peals of laughter. He looks like he’s about to spill out of his chair (Jeongin violently hopes to whatever being is out there listening that he does), and the rest of the crowd surrounding the laptop’s display isn’t faring much better.

“This isn’t even that bad!” Minho consoles(?) through his own giddy giggles, as Hyunjin takes it upon himself to scramble up to his knees from his crumpled position on the floor and click to the next atrocity.

Like with every action, Jisung’s barely passable excuse of a laptop lags for exactly two and a half seconds before an image of Jeongin, mouth open wide in what he is sure is mid-scream with one of those stupid, yellow, bug-eyed screeching chicken hats perched on his head completely violates his senses. The image has Comic Sans neon text scrawled on the side that, for some reason (but also somehow appropriately?), says “hello chicken.”

Everyone is grounded by the force of their own laughter, sans Jeongin himself, who wishes so badly in this moment to be a college dropout. Changbin’s squeaks of laughter grate on his eardrums, the star player of their pitiful team standing too close to him, uncaring of the negative, downright homicidal vibes emanating from Jeongin’s pores as they cycle through humiliating screenshots of unflattering Snapchat selfies and cryptid-esque sneak pictures of him just existing on campus. Then, Changbin’s laughter instantly morphs into indignant squawks of protest as the laptop hits the first of his series of unfortunate photocards.

“Ah, ah!” Jisung defends with wide eyes, frantically waving a hand out to Changbin to curb his yelling. “This is for the sake of the unit.” He says ‘the unit’ like it’s something sacred— an ideology.

“Fuck the unit,” Jeongin spits internally.

“Yeah, bro,” Seungmin defends immediately, infuriatingly laid back. “Do you wanna feast or not?”

Because that’s what this all boils down to.

Every university-sponsored club is permitted one weekend trip a semester that is mostly covered by university funding, so long as the club pays its dues on time at the beginning of the year. The budget, of course, isn’t all that substantial, but it’s nearly enough to rent a decently sized cabin that fits ten people (as long as two people are willing to share a pullout couch) for a long weekend. Like, technically, is the money supposed to be budgeted to cover the cost of traveling for tournaments?

Maybe!

But there are eight people on the team, and none of them are talented enough to make the cut for faraway competitions. Not a lot of people and zero talent means no supervision, so no one takes issue with the expenditure.

Plus, between Hyunjin’s artistic eye, Minho’s business-oriented mind, Jisung’s war crime of an embarrassing photo compilation, Felix’s trend analysis, Changbin’s access to the Adobe suite (for some reason), Chan’s organization skills, and Seungmin’s sheer fucking greed, their insultingly successful club expo booth was born.

Don’t misunderstand: all of the members of this club are completely hopeless losers, but for reasons that Jeongin will never comprehend, students go feral over their stupid collection of embarrassing merch every year without fail. The club expo is always scheduled for the second week of the year, just two weeks before the club fee deadline. It’s supposed to be an opportunity for extracurricular promotion, but the table tennis club is possessed by the spirit of capitalism, greed, and dreams of a lavish barbecue during their weekend getaway.

It’s a fundraiser, and one that has absolutely no business being as wildly lucrative as it is. Especially when their merch is some of the ugliest, most unhinged garbage Jisung can conceive of with their faces slapped on. Jeongin wishes that it stopped at the unflattering photocards— if only. No, they sold out all of the #1 Dad mugs with Chan’s vaguely concerned, pensive, somewhat traumatized, blank face stamped on the front within ten minutes. The pants patterned with Minho’s face mid-yawn are an abomination and an inexplicable hit every year without fail. The pillow covers with the picture of Seungmin with his cheeks puffed and hands curled into fists by his face screen-printed on sold out concerningly fast. Hyunjin has literally no association with Mexico, yet people are unironically patriotic about that flag with him sprawled facetiously sensually across it, boba straw bit between his teeth like it’s a fucking rose stem. Jeongin won’t even comment on the body pillows. Changbin’s merch is truly unspeakable. The sales from Jisung’s nonsense keychain featuring him glancing sensitively out a window and his bullshit quote, ”Once you skr skr, your perspective of life is always skee skee,” would have been enough to cover dinner all three nights on the last trip.

Honestly, Jeongin wants to call the police, but he doesn’t know what to say. All he can do is watch— horrified, traumatized, disillusioned, a little bit crying— as everyone crowds this year's psychotic batch of merch mockups on Jisung’s glitching screen (”Save me one of these!” Felix demands, delightedly pointing at something Jeongin doesn’t have enough courage to look at).

“Oh, these are going to do absolute numbers.” Minho snickers gleefully, the light from Jisung’s laptop glinting ominously in his eyes.

Jeongin figures he may as well call his social life’s time of death now.

He spends the entirety of the club expo cowering behind Hyunjin as best he can and pretending like he isn’t witnessing a tragedy in the form of a fundraiser. The line is endless, even with three pay stations set up. Felix, Jisung, and Hyunjin are their strongest soldiers, bravely managing the registers and the flood of questions from their customers (”Peru flag Minho hasn’t sold out yet, right?”). Meanwhile, Seungmin quietly slinks around the booth, taking note of what stock is depleting and marking off which items have completely sold out. He orders Chan, Changbin, and Minho to replenish items as they run low, and the three transport fresh boxes of merch as needed. The crowd ‘awes’ dejectedly, and Jeongin turns to see it’s because Seungmin just crossed out the last of their disproportionate dolls with their ugliest selfies printed on the face.

“Don’t worry!” Seungmin comforts, a wicked grin curling his lips. “There’s about five limited edition banana dolls left.”

Jeongin doesn’t even know what those are; he pales and occupies his mind by counting down the hours until his saving grace— the only thing preventing him from simply fizzling out of existence on the spot.

His fourth (fourth!) date with you.

It’s a miracle.

You share a single class with him— his favorite. Not because it’s particularly interesting or engaging, but because he made his first friend outside of the club there.

“That’s so cute!”

Jeongin whirled to the side where you were leaning in to look at his keyboard, starry-eyed. He swallowed. He wanted to say the same of you. Instead, he said, “Huh?”

“Your sticker.” You clarified, delighted at the smiling cartoon fox one of his brothers had adhered to the left of his trackpad one of the times he’d let them borrow it. He should buy them a meal or something the next time he’s home, he thought absentmindedly.

“Thanks.” He blinked, then horrifically continued: “You too.”

He panicked.

You giggled.

“I mean— I, uh-“ Jeongin fumbled spectacularly.

“I know what you mean.” You grinned, and Jeongin’s throat dried. You were so, so pretty, it was physically painful. He didn’t even know where to focus— your sparkling eyes reflecting the god-awful fluorescent overhead lights, your endearing smile that somehow made you even prettier (much to his devastation), or the casual tilt of your head as you glanced up to meet his startled gaze.

And then from there, somehow, he managed to foster an easy-going friendship with you that— by some divine blessing— turned into a date, then multiple dates. They all went well, even, and Jeongin is pathetically, hopelessly into you.

Like, so into you that he started blow-drying his hair before the class he shared with you, so it looks silky enough to come up under the search ‘boyfriend’ on Pinterest. He hasn’t even worn a beanie unless the weather actually called for it since he met you. If he thinks too long or hard about it, he probably would be concerned with how quickly he had become enamored with you, but then he thought about you, and all of the pieces of the puzzle fell into the right place.

How could he not become a loser in love when you’re charming, witty, considerate, cute, supremely out of his league, and still choosing to hang out with him?

And he has a stupid cartoon fox sticker to thank for it all.

Jeongin can’t differentiate whether or not he is living in a nightmare or a dream between the club expo and his date with you. Admittedly, he’d gotten astoundingly bold on your last date and held your hand for the first time (he had agonized over whether or not to reach for it on the walk home for the last twenty minutes of dinner, before remembering the time you told him he had ‘pretty’ hands while he was typing something in class) and then invited you over to his place for your next date before he had really thought about the implications of that setting. There are none, of course! His intentions are completely pure, like water straight from a fucking spring in mountains that have never even been traversed by the disgusting footsteps of man.

… But, if you’re interested in doing something that isn’t hand-holding or blushing, then Jeongin is so game for that too.

“Jeongin—”

He slightly detaches himself from Hyunjin’s back to turn and answer Minho’s saccharine call of his name.

The man is balancing three boxes of unopened merch, and his closed-lipped smile is murderous as he faux-affectionately croons, “Either help run this booth or call the emergency help line before I get my hands on you.”

He scrambles, now so inspired to take the top box from Minho’s stack, and flounders over to where Seungmin is so helpfully pointing. On his way over, he unintentionally makes eye contact with a square pillowcase of Chan’s head photoshopped (poorly) onto the wolf guy from Twilight’s shirtless body, and he fully trips and nearly face plants into the metal folding chair Felix had abandoned. There are more crimes in decorative pillowcase format folded neatly behind Twilight Wolf Man Chan. They are unspeakable.

Jeongin is going to pick out a nice final resting place for his social life.

He has no idea what on earth is wrong with him tonight, other than the fact that his peers are walking around with merch of varying degrees of humiliation, but that shouldn’t impact the coordination of his limbs.

Sure, he’s nervous. It’s the first time you’re in his space, and he’s terrified that something about his living arrangement is going to give away just how much of a loser he is (deep inside his subconscious, he knows that you are already very well aware of his terminal loserism, but he does not want to give you a reason to ditch him). He doesn’t have basic boy blue bedsheets (of course— not that he intends you to see them!), his cabinets are about as far from single man who has never cooked a day in his life as a college student can get, and he has real dishes and silverware laid out on the table for dinner.

In short: he’s doing his best, but he’s fumbling hard and fast.

So far, since you’ve been in his apartment, he’s dropped his phone twice, tripped over absolutely nothing thrice, run into his own furniture that has been placed exactly the same as the day he moved in, and keeps stumbling over his own words.

Jeongin’s a clumsy disaster— like, more clumsy than usual— and he knows that it’s impossible for you not to notice. The sweat trickles down his spine in a pattern that spells his failure, while the material of his shirt adheres to his back. He’s barely managed to make it through dinner; he cooked a crusted chicken with a lemon sauce and prepared a light salad as a side. He hopes it’s at least passable— his nerves made everything he put in his mouth taste like sand.

“Thank you for dinner.” You lean forward to rest your elbows on the table, an endeared smile curving your lips.

A chuckle that doesn’t sound quite right, too breathy and high-pitched to be his, fills the kitchen and he bashfully rubs the nape of his neck, eyes cast downward. “Of course. I hope it was okay.”

“It was wonderful.” Your eyes twinkle, weighted with something he isn’t sure how to interpret, and you take a small sip of your water. Jeongin watches the delicate movement of your throat, transfixed, as you swallow and gently place your glass back down, your index finger lightly tapping the side. “How should I thank you?”

Your seemingly casual question dries his mouth instantly, and he reaches for his own glass with trembling fingers, stammering, “Oh, uh. You don’t— don’t worry about it.”

And in all his elegance, Jeongin knocks his water over, the contents pooling out over the shitty, chipped tabletop.

“Oh dear.” With all the grace he does not possess tonight, you slip out of your chair with your napkin in hand, glide over to his side, and claim a new seat.

In Jeongin’s lap.

“Allow me.”

He doesn’t have a pulse. He’s dead. All his organs have turned to stone, and his blood solidified the moment he registered the heat of your body through the fabric of his pants. Then, he is violently resurrected— yoinked straight from his grave by the scruff of his neck— by the shift of your ass as you lean forward, righting his overturned glass and sweeping the puddle with the cheap napkin with your pretty hands. His breath hitches as you turn to face him, and he can feel his blood bubbling with a vengeance across his face and down his neck where your arms are languidly looped.

Jeongin is truly beside himself; he doesn’t know where to put his hands (Is the waist too scandalous? Are the shoulders too conservative? Is he out of his mind for even considering touching you?), nor does he understand why you are still interested in him. His large, quaking hands hover uncertainly at his sides, and before he can ask a single, tremulous question, you reposition yourself with an airy, delighted giggle so that you’re fully straddling his legs.

“How’s this?” You ask with a playful tilt of your head, and he swallows audibly, thickly, and bobs his head up and down a few times. “Thank you,” you say sweetly, and he opens his mouth to ask what for.

But why would Jeongin ask any questions about anything ever in this situation? He might not know anything ever again, and he’s okay with that, because your mouth is on his in a relaxed, sensual, and heated open-mouthed kiss, and that is all the information he requires. He knows the weight and press of your thighs against his, and the faint taste of strawberries from the salad on your tongue, and he has reached enlightenment.

Your hands untangle themselves from his dark hair momentarily, your lips never detaching from his in the process, and capture his wrists. It’s at that moment that he realizes his hands are still extended uselessly, and he accidentally whines pathetically into your mouth when you guide one hand to slide up the front of your shirt and the other to grip at the flesh of your ass through your jeans. Unconsciously, his long fingers squeeze over your back pocket, and he is rewarded with a breathy gasp and an agonizing roll of your hips. His vision whites out, but it doesn’t even matter because his fringe is flopping into his eyes anyway. Your skin is warm and soft under the palm of his hand, and his hand wanders of its own accord, carefully mapping the indents of your ribcage and stroking tentative lines with the pad of his thumb.

It’s all too intense of a make-out for the setting of his measly dinner table, he decides. He pulls back just enough to whimper a miserably winded, “bedroom,” with his pupils blown wide and his dark hair a tousled mess, and you immediately slip off his lap with your fingers curled into the front of his shirt near his chest so you can drag him along with you. He’s not an idiot, so he scrambles after you until his body is flattened against yours as much as possible, his big hands adhering to any part of you he can reach, grabbing, tracing, kneading, and his neck craning to connect his lips with yours. Then, Jeongin stumbles to lead you down the hallway to his bedroom— which is super difficult, by the way, when you’re making out with someone so arduously that you lose your sense of direction, depth, dignity, and all trace of decorum.

Seriously, Jeongin should be ashamed of the shaky, helpless sounds you’re pulling out of him. He didn’t even know he could make them until now. But your fingers are scraping up the back of his neck and into his hair in a way that shoots tingles down his spine, and he could cry when you tug impatiently at the roots. He is so focused on you, a literal angel sent to save him from his lifelong loser club membership that he just can’t seem to unsubscribe from, when he really needs to be conscious of his surroundings. With the way you’re both fumbling down the hall, bumping into furniture and stumbling over absolutely nothing, Jeongin fears something is bound to end up broken, be it an object or a bone. And fuck it— he knows the damn way to his bedroom, so Jeongin makes an executive decision and flattens both of his hands against your ass and signals you to leap with a solid smack. Your legs are instantly folded just above his hips, your kiss now near bruising as you angle your head to press deeper into him. This close, your light perfume is completely intoxicating, clouding his mind with a dreamy haze as he finally staggers through the threshold of his bedroom.

The veins in his forearms strain scrumptiously as he keeps you suspended while he flounders backwards towards his bed. His heels knock against the baseboard with a dull thunk, and you take advantage of the momentary pause to pull again at his disheveled locks, guiding him away from your lips just enough for you to peer at him through confident, coy eyes that glisten in the low light from the desk lamp he’d forgotten to switch off. Now he’s glad he left it on, because he’s able to appreciate your appearance in the dim yellow light.

Your face is flushed prettily, an ethereal glow to your skin, and your lips are obscenely swollen. Jeongin is probably in a similar state, his chest heaving and nerves completely overheated. In this moment, the only thing he can hear other than his blood pulsing in his ears, is the shared puffs of breath exchanged in the few inches between you.

You’re a dream, and Jeongin’s knees nearly buckle because you’re just so pretty and kind, but you grin and smooch him sweetly one more time and his dreams are coming true as he can’t help but smile into the kiss, thick indents adorning his cheeks in the process.

Then your kiss-plumped lips say, “Seo Changbin?”

And all Jeongin’s dreams turn to static as the cables connecting his brain to the rest of his body fucking fizzle out.

He’s betrayed— crushed even.

“Why are you saying another man’s name in my room?” He chokes out, utterly stricken with grief as tears embarrassingly burn his waterline. His knees finally do buckle, and he collapses at the foot of his bed, your thighs still straddling his lap while you bounce slightly from the sudden drop, your hands now braced on his shoulders.

But you’re blinking, dazed at something over his shoulder and he realizes that you’re staring at his bed. Slowly, Jeongin twists to peer over his shoulder, and his teammate’s enlarged, eternally smiling face is staring unyielding at him from his bed.

He startles, screams, and fumbles for the chain dangling from the ceiling fan above him to turn on the overhead lights, jostling you in the process. Your nails bite into the skin of his shoulders as you yelp, but not in the sexy way. The room is bathed in full light, and what it reveals is far worse than his teammate chilling in his room while he was about to engage in intercourse for, like, the first time ever.

It’s a demonic body pillow of his teammate, Seo Changbin.

“I— I—” He stammers, unable to turn away from the intruder, long fingers vigorously rubbing his eyes as if they were short-circuiting. That thing had somehow materialized before him like a cursed object in a horror movie. If this were a horror movie, it would be the last thing he saw before the screen cut to black, his final screams terrorizing the audience.

“Oh, wow,” You say softly, and Jeongin’s head whips back to face you, eyes wide in uncontained hysteria. “I didn’t know you were into stuff like that! Cool!”

You’re too kind with your understanding smile, he thinks, trying to help him play this tragedy off, but he needs you to know this is all a misunderstanding.

To that end, Jeongin frantically shakes his head in denial. “No! I’m not! I’ve never seen this before— I don’t know how it got here!”

Now that he thinks about it, Felix did mention needing to store some things at his place while he did something or other at his dorm— this was all his doing.

Jeongin is alarmingly red in the cheeks, ears, and all down his neck as he attempts to explain his way out of what has got to be the most traumatizing date of your life, but you silence him with your warm hands cupping his cheeks and a pacifying peck to his lips. “It’s okay! It’s super cute that you support your teammates like this.”

“I swear this isn’t me!” He agonizes, eyes pleading for you to believe him. “This isn’t who I am!” Jeongin laments, fully in tears for real now.

This is it, he thinks.

You’re going to figure out a way to nicely excuse yourself from this dreadful excuse for a date, then avoid him forever, never sit anywhere near him in class again, and he’ll never get to talk to you again and he’s going to be miserable for forever.

“It belongs to a friend!” He desperately tries, hands clenching the material of your shirt at your sides into his fists, but you just smile and agree easily, “Sure, sweetie” all while swiping his tears away with the pads of your fingertips.

You are a merciful goddess sent from heaven to save his pathetic loser ass, Jeongin confirms when you invite him to your place within the next few days, kindly suggesting that he take a couple days to settle his nerves.

How had Jeongin survived this far?

He is still fighting his residual mortification three days later as he enters your apartment, his ears glowing a vibrant scarlet that never quite fully dissipated from that evening. But blessedly, you still smile just as affectionately at him as before, lacing your fingers through his and leading him down the hallway to your room.

Your apartment has personality, he notes as he glances around as subtly as possible in an attempt to make his invasiveness non-intrusive. There are cute prints displayed in simple frames hung up on the walls, some colorful decorative pillows lying about the common area, and a few plants dotted near the windows. It’s cozy— relaxing even— and it smells clean and warm like laundry detergent. Jeongin can picture you spending your time outside of class curled up on the couch with a pillow settled in your lap, or sitting at the table poring over classwork on your laptop. It just now registers in his brain that he is in your space, a place he never thought he would be. His cheeks traitorously scald at the thought, and he inhales deeply to steady his tripping heartbeat.

You pause outside the door at the end of the hallway where your name is spelled out in neat bubble letters on a little plaque. With your delicate fingers wrapped around the handle, you turn to face him, and Jeongin is struck again with how agonizingly cute you are, with bright, kind eyes, the sweetest smile that rounds the apples of your cheeks, and the endearing way you sway to lean against the door. You’re literally perfect, he thinks, his heart swelling so full it throbs painfully against his chest.

You swing the door open and gently tug him through the threshold, padding backwards. Jeongin fights the unwelcome sense of deja vu from the other night in his apartment when he had carried you into his room— this is his moment of redemption.

His eyes flit around your room for the first time, and Jeongin’s soul evaporates right out of his ears on the spot.

Staring back at him is, like, damn near every single one of his cursed merch items.

All of it.

Decorative pillows are displayed on your bed, featuring a stupid selfie he took wearing an even stupider pair of sunglasses and a ridiculous cartoon bird with nearly identical sunglasses, expressions mirroring each other. His face pales at the photocard laminated and decorated with stickers propped up on your nightstand, where he is mid-lunge (or possibly attempting a split?), wearing a weird sequinned pair of pants he found stashed at the back of Hyunjin’s closet, his mouth wide in anguish and regret. Beside it is a sinister book reminiscent of a scrapbook, and he fears its contents would drag his conscious straight to hell with expedited, first class shipping. Even the shitty rag doll with questionable origins is sitting ominously on your bookshelf, the low-quality Snapchat selfie taken from a downward angle mid-bite of spaghetti cropped into the oddly-shaped head. Entirely against his will, he discovers what the banana dolls Seungmin had mentioned were, and immediately control-alt-deletes that bit of information from his brain (Why does it have arms?).

He’s speechless. Jeongin wants to melt into the floor, he’s so embarrassed. He physically can’t face you; his hands slip out of your grasp to slap over his face to shield himself from the shame burning him from inside, but it’s so bad, he also can’t look away from it, and he peeks through the cracks of his fingers.

You’re delighted, watching his eyes avert away from one corner of the room, only to widen in horror as they land on another landmine of humiliating merch. Right now, they’re occupied by his blurry slut-drop printed on Mexico’s flag hanging patriotically on your wall. He is pale.

“Why?!” He chokes out, unable to tear his gaze away from what may as well be the scene of his murder— or at least his dignity’s.

You giggle, and Jeongin’s heart still flutters traitorously at the sound. “You did this!”

He groans up at the ceiling, his eyes squeezed shut, and his shoulders drooping in mortification.

“No!” Jeongin laments. “Han Jisung did this! He did all of this!”

౨ৎTurned Tables Masterlist

Felix will never complain about the raging incompetence of the student services department at his university for the rest of his life. Not because they’re actually good at planning or being organized in general, but because their baffling inability to do their jobs landed him in a morning textile workshop every Monday and Thursday. Don’t misunderstand— the student services building is hell, and he swears the devil is there. His four year plan to graduate on time is utterly useless, the document detailing his path to a degree just existing without purpose off in the ether of his file explorer now, but landing his ass in this random class that has nothing to do with his major led him to you.

You’re brilliant— the laws of physics just bend to your artistic eye with how skilled you are at drape, and the way you bring your designs to life with some healthy improvisation and adjustments here and there is a fascinating process to witness. Felix sees your incredible work first— an enchanting off-the-shoulder dress, layers stunning, detailed, and flowing like magic. Then he sees the maker, and it all makes sense that someone as unearthly pretty as you would be able to create something so surreal.

You’re unbelievably kind too, he discovers the first time he approaches you to appreciate the in-progress design you’re patiently, efficiently hand sewing some detail pieces together for. Felix is convinced you’re the only thing preventing him from failing this class. Not that he’s anywhere near actually flunking— he can read a pattern and use scissors, thank you, but his attention span when it comes to theory mirrors the lifespan of an ant on an elementary school playground.

All it takes is a genuine compliment from him about the flowy shape of the sleeves and you glow at the praise, smile absolutely beaming as you thank him. He plans to be on his way after that, because his sisters always complain when he hovers while they’re focusing on something and he doesn’t want to be in your way. Much to his surprise however, you ask him if he’s willing to stand still for a moment so you can pin a few pieces in the correct place.

“You’re like, good at standing still, right?” Your voice is hopeful and has a pleasant cadence to it that draws him in like a spoon of peanut butter does a dog.

“For sure! Statue.” Felix promises, probably too eager to be considered casual, but he’s thrilled to get a front row seat to your creative process.

And that’s the origin story of his thrilling debut as a mannequin.

It’s the best thing that has ever come out of his academic career. Every class, he brings the energy of one of those damn marble busts taking up space in the library, even going as far as holding his breath while you adjust and pin the fabric. Felix observes your peaceful concentration as you mark seam allowances and does his best not to gulp audibly when your careful fingers graze his neck or arm while you shift the fabric. He remains silent as you work, but fully takes advantage of any breaks you take to yap, making absurd, silly jokes that earn your cute, vibrant laughter which makes his stomach weightless. His luck is endless, he finds the more he spends time with you— your sense of humor meshes with his like a dream.

You’re like a dream, he thinks while trying not to blatantly stare at the pretty slope of your nose, the exact shape your mouth curves in to when you’re overflowing with amusement, or the specific shade of your lips when whatever gloss you applied earlier wears off. In his completely objective opinion, you are intimidatingly pretty in an otherworldly kind of way. Your features are unique, distinct, and flattering to the extent that it doesn’t feel real, and he fears his brain will be rendered into soup every time you check on him with patient, kind eyes and an appreciative smile.

Over the weeks, he learns more about you. How you’re in the art club despite your focus in fashion, and how you work part time at the screen printing shop off campus. Felix couldn’t resist stopping by the tucked-back shop one afternoon to take a peek.

At the merchandise, of course.

He just so happened to luck out that you were manning the front counter at the time. But his luck ended there, since you were chatting with two other girls. One obviously worked there with you, a name tag pinned to her shirt, while the other was clearly a friend crashing the shift, a sketchbook tucked under her arm.

“Oh, Felix!” You perked up when you noticed him shuffle over, a familiar, sweet smile crinkling your eyes. “Hi hi!” It was unexpectedly warm the closer Felix got to the counter, and he couldn’t ignore the blistering heat blooming on his face. Neither could the other non-employee in the room evidently, as her eyes bounced back and forth between both of you intently before yanking your coworker into the back room, excitedly whispering something about ‘organic occurrences’ or something as the both of you chatted. Every interaction with you melts away his intimidation and feeds the timid, warm mass of admiration growing deep inside his chest.

Felix is at a complete loss as to what to do with said mass of admiration, though.

That is, until his wonderful, lovely, unapologetically blunt grandmother sends him a gift that just continues giving. Felix flips open the card she mailed him out of the blue (it’s not his birthday for a while?) and a startling amount of crisp cash floods out into his lap. He gapes for a few extended moments at the sheer number of bills, jaw unhinged before he snaps back to reality. Still alarmed, Felix’s wide eyes flicker over her note for an explanation that hopefully doesn’t involve a terminal illness or the tale of a bank robbery before the statute of limitations runs out. Instead, what he finds is both worse for his self esteem and better for his peace of mind. Her loopy cursive gently roasts him within an inch of his life in the way that only elderly ladies can accomplish— “It’s time to fix that wardrobe, Sweetie.” He’s undeniably charred, but also richer.

Plus, he’s not ignorant to the tragedy that is his wardrobe. Graphic t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans are all he has to rock with since his parents weren't eager to splurge on expensive clothing with his wonkily timed growth spurts, and said articles of clothing are not it to say the very least.

But, with this, Felix sees the double opportunity: an opening to invite you on a casual, low-stakes first date. He knows better than to ask you before class starts— he’s listened to his younger sister’s many tales of woe involving manipulative classmates who made the learning environment unbearably awkward by asking her out first thing in the morning with an audience. Felix is beyond proud of her for not bending to social pressure and kindly, firmly rejecting them before everyone and their mothers. Queen shit really. He loves to be related.

With his sister’s experience in mind, Felix waits until the end of class when mostly everyone has already evacuated the lecture hall and you’re still carefully packing away your materials. Intending to assist with the collection of your multicolored pins, Felix reaches out to begin gathering, but reassigns himself the task of sweeping your scraps together when he clocks the persistent vibration of his hands. Better not touch sharp objects in this moment. You flash him an appreciative grin as he stacks the smaller scraps into a pile, and Felix fully forgets every mission he set for himself.

What was he doing again? Asking weekend for updated scrap fabric for this wardrobe?

Huh?

He spams the backspace key in his brain and clears his throat only blocked with his own cowardice. There is nothing he can do about the radiant flush of his entire face, ears, and the backs of his still violently trembling hands, he knows. He’s more red bell pepper than man as he bashfully speaks, “So, my grandma sent me a letter to inform me that I dress too embarrassingly to be related to her and funded an intervention.”

You pause packing your bag to completely burst into loud, giddy laughter. Your eyes squeeze shut as your hand reaches up to conceal your max-happiness-obtained shaped grin. He supposes that is one hell of an opener for the situation, and feels his lips curve into a small (totally not lovestruck) smile.

“You’ve got an incredible eye, and no pressure, but you’re kind of my only hope.” Felix says, pulse thrumming in his wrists almost painfully as he finally asks with round, pathetic eyes, “Would you be willing to help prevent my removal from the family registry and go shopping with me this Sunday?”

Your eyes glitter at the question, and you don’t hesitate to enthusiastically agree with an adorable wink. “Oh my gosh, for sure! You’ve totally come to the right girl.”

Felix loses all sensation of his body, everything oddly weightless and not properly wired together as he takes in your response. He almost can’t process it. You said yes. He did it. You’re going on a date this weekend.

He is experiencing a level of euphoria he didn’t know was possible.

But then Sunday happens, and Felix is in excruciating agony.

Spending time with you is wonderful— you’re even more of a delight outside of class, sweet, silly, and undeniably incredible at everything you do.

He’s never had a more successful shopping venture. After experiencing your fashion wisdom first hand, he doesn’t think he’s ever had a successful shopping venture before now, actually.

You gently guide him to a few different cuts of jeans that are flattering and comfortable on his frame, somehow making shapes appear that Felix knows damn well don’t exist on him (”Look for stretchy blends so you can still do half-assed lunges at table tennis practice”). But you’re magic and you’re incredibly generous about sharing your expertise— you answer his questions about why you recommend certain fits, and you explain your reasoning behind your suggestions to help him understand and curate his own sense of style, because you insist that his opinion is the one that actually matters.

“I can show you flattering combinations,” You say, flipping through a rack of the same sweater in search of a specific size. “But what really matters is how you feel.”

Felix is supposed to be searching the shelf next to you for his size in the displayed pants, but his hands are still as he blatantly stares at your unbelievably angelic face while you talk.

“You can be in expensive, trendy clothes and still look awful if it isn’t something that makes you feel good.” You bounce up on your tip toes to unhook the second to last sweater at the back of the rack before turning to face him, finding him already looking at you. Your pretty eyes flicker down to the pants Felix is not progressing through, and you frown a little.

“Aw, out of your size?” You ask disappointedly, and he rapidly returns to shuffling through the stack of pants again, caught. He’s optimistic that his grown out black fringe curtains his glowing cheeks from your field of vision.

You proceed to demonstrate how to layer simple shirts under sweaters and button-downs, how different tucks of said garments can alter his silhouette. Felix learns the arcane magic of the half-tuck, observing in awed silence as you spawn flattering proportions legitimately out of nowhere— okay, shoulder to hip ratio. It’s kind, the way you consider the colors he gravitates towards in your search for articles of clothing for him to try on. By the time he’s actually in the dressing room, there is a sizable (but not overkill) selection of outfits already paired for him. Felix has no intention of leaving with all of it, but he expects you to provide your input during this phase.

However, you withhold your opinion every time he resurfaces from behind the dressing room curtain. Instead of a compliment or a nose wrinkle or anything, you ask him for his take with a contemplative tilt to your head.

“Is the fabric comfortable against your skin?”

“You can move freely or is it giving zip tie sleeve?”

“How do you feel in it?”

You give him zero assessment of his appearance, and somehow, it flusters him more than a “you look hot” ever could. The intimacy of the moment is both unexpected and helpful, and the interaction leaves him a tragic combination of off-kilter and hopelessly endeared. You offer him a guiding presence as he grows to understand his sense of self— both stylistically and emotionally. Felix doesn’t think you even do it intentionally, but your thoughtful, focused care sends his blood simmering into near volcanic temperatures. How you're even able to assess his skin tone when he’s spent the majority of the day color-matching the peel of a Red Delicious apple, he’ll never know.

It doesn’t matter though, because the date concludes successfully. Big, crinkly paper bags— packed with his closet’s redemption— are all bunched together in one hand, Felix walks you back towards campus as the sun sinks below the tree line. The dainty pair of earrings he sneakily bought while you were off hunting through some nicer pullovers are shoved into his pocket. He feels the shape of the box press into his thigh with each step. All he has to do now is land the post-date wind-down.

“Thank you,” Felix glances at you, the weight of his words sincere. “I had a really good time with you today.” And he means it— he can’t stop his brain from scene selecting moments throughout the day where your shoulders accidentally brushed, or you giggled at something he said, or your fingers grazed as you reached for something at the same time.

But this is all from his perspective, he learns at the end of the outing that you are missing the important context that today was, in fact, intended to be a date.

“For sure!” Your steps are light, carefree, and unaware of the nuclear level meltdown you just set off in his subconscious as you give his arm a friendly pat. “Happy to be of service. Make your grandma proud!”

Felix realizes that he did not understand the assignment— the fact that he was the assignment, a friendly styling SOS project and nothing more.

You part ways soon after with an enthusiastic wave, abandoning Felix to exist in a painfully confusing suspension of time and space. He lets the failure slump his shoulders and weigh down his feet as he slinks back to his apartment. The shopping bags are abandoned on the floor beside his bed before he crawls on top of the covers to wallow in defeat, his only source of comfort is his cylindrical Changbin pillow that smiles unsettlingly. For the remainder of the evening, he reviews his mental film of the date, replaying each interaction in search of the romantic subtext he swore had been there.

And then the table tennis group chat goes off, and Felix’s attention is mercifully demanded elsewhere. The distraction of their headassery is more than welcome to his overworked, defeated brain floating around uselessly in misery soup. He doesn’t have to agonize over how to face you bright and early tomorrow morning until he actually walks through the door to the lecture hall.

At least he’s well-dressed, clad in one of the new pairs of dark jeans that make his legs look long and a magically half-tucked sweater that’s both cozy and hangs well on his frame. Despite the world being against him— it’s just before eight, he stayed up later the previous night against his will, and he’s still coping with the actuality that you cannot fathom him in a romantic context— he feels good. He feels like a whole human, like he can be chill, and friendly, and laid back with you as usual.

You’re already in your seat, feet leisurely crossed at the ankles as you peacefully wait for workshop to begin. Your nimble fingers are, as always, creating something. He’s too far away to be sure, but judging by the steady, proficient curl of your wrists, he thinks you’re crocheting lace trimming, pausing every few stitches to string on a pearl bead. Watching you work, unbothered by the other students miserably dragging their feet and belongings to their seats, is inexplicably soothing.

Everything is normal, he hasn’t ruined anything between you. With a long, fortifying inhale through his nose, Felix approaches you with one hand lifted, his typical bright smile, and a chipper call of, “Morning!”

Every day, you reply with an equally cheerful, “Hi hi!” and a sweet grin that softens his knees to the consistency of room temperature butter. Today is different, however. Your lips move in the way they always do when you greet him, already forming a warm curve and the first of your ‘Hi’s’ as your eyes crinkle as they flicker up to him before returning to the lace in your hands. The remainder of your greeting perishes immediately as your brain splutters to a halt as it tries and fails multiple times to process the disaster before you. Your eyes, round with terror, violently dart back up to him.

It’s not the double take Felix was going for, to say the least.

Your eyes merely flitter over his fit (which he is rocking, by the way, but there’s a more pressing, blinding matter to attend to).

“Okay, don’t panic,” You cut yourself off, your voice soothing, but still carrying a note of urgency like you’re the RA on the clock when a resident starts a fire in the microwave by forgetting to pour water into their mac and cheese— far from ideal, but still solvable. “We can fix this.”

Felix only blinks like he is unaware of the aggressive code yellow atop his head. “Huh? What happened?”

“I’m not sure either,” You murmur in a daze, unable to tear your eyes away from the Crayola yellow. Felix’s previously natural jet black hair is now positively fried into a bleach yellow. It’s a crime, and even worse, it’s a fresh job— it has to be because it’s barely been fifteen hours since you last saw him with his unoffensive, natural hair— but, to your devastation, you can see the line of demarcation where the bleach was sloppily slathered on, but not applied near the roots.

This is an emergency.

“But I have a box of hair dye I was going to use to dye fabric, and this is an eleven.”

Felix has no time to comprehend before you shove your crochet project into your bag, leap to your feet, and take his hand. He can feel his entire face and neck sear ferociously at the softness of your palm against his. You lead him out of the lecture hall and down the hallway, evidently abandoning the workshop, but Felix doesn’t have it in him to worry about his attendance. You taking his hand of your own volition switches his brain off and silent like it’s a vacuum abruptly unplugged from a wall. Utterly dumbstruck and nearly sparking ablaze, he distantly thinks he’d follow you anywhere.

Then you pull him halfway into the women’s bathroom.

“Ah, woah!” Felix scrambles to halt your stride, the rubber soles of his shoes screeching in protest against the tile as he digs his heels in. “I can’t go in ther—”

“The men’s bathroom is godless and repulsive. We are not going in there.” You protest, and the slight pout of your glossy lips at the concept of setting foot in there is enough to convince Felix to drop it. He’s lost.

You pull him inside, locking the door behind you with a click that echoes faintly against the white and grey tiled walls. And to your credit, the women’s bathroom is significantly cleaner than the men’s. Felix mentally catalogues how none of the stalls in the girl’s bathroom are missing doors and the overall lack of suspicious, toxic stains splattered across every surface. Instead, someone scribbled a motivational message accompanied with a smiley face and some flowers in sharpie on a tile near the door. Aww.

Abruptly, you bust him out of his thoughts to guide him to stand in front of the mirror before the sink, and he is forced to face the catastrophe staring back at him as he stands under the brutal, honest, buzzing fluorescent lights. This is the first time he really sees it for what it is— a bleach burnt war crime.

He is torn from his rapidly snowballing panic by the harsh sound of you ripping the box dye kit open. You begin your operation— just the dye, a single glove, the shitty plastic brush, and a fucking dream.

“Felix, what happened to you?” You ask, concern drowning your voice and swimming in your eyes like he showed up to class mauled.

“The table tennis team is bleaching in support of Changbin.” He sheepishly replies. Felix isn’t sure if it’s more embarrassing that this was a sober decision. The thought was sweet, but the reality is horrific. Plus, everyone and their dog knows the table tennis team of going nowhere.

“It’s going to be okay, Felix. Just stay with me.” He nods, completely trusting you to work your magic as always.

And, as always, he stands perfectly still for you as you carefully apply the cool, dark dye to his hair, ensuring the lather is even. Your focused touch is familiar, soothing, and the close proximity in an empty room with you makes his nerves tingle— then again, it might also be the work of the cheap, boxed hair dye.

In twenty minutes, Felix is bent backwards over the porcelain sink like he’s in limbo formation as you wash out the dye, your hand cradling his head as the frigid water trickles through his hair. It takes a while, because the water pressure is pitiful, but eventually, the water runs clear. Now free from the sink baptism, his hair is so wet that he cant tell what color it even is as you make your best effort to squeeze out the excess water.

“So, I’m… back to black?” He asks, tone unsure, but instead of answering, you tug him over to the wall-mounted hand dryers. He peers blankly at the dyer, then his eyes flick to your expectant face as you gesture to what is certainly not a Dyson to say the very least.

“Are you serious?”

“Almost there, Felix.” You encourage. “Commit.”

And so, with an exhausted, suffering sigh, Felix abides and bends forward at the waist. There’s only a half-beat of delay before his scalp is blasted with intensely hot, deafening air.

This is not how he pictured cutting class with his crush, if Felix is being honest. When is it his turn to adventure out to random shops, cafes, wherever with you, holding no other obligations and instead each other’s hands?

His wistful daydreaming is literally scorched out of his brain when the faulty dryer roars an unexpected blast of hotter air against his scalp, and he winces.

He wants to ask you how long he needs to hold this position, but the question dies before it can even form on his lips when your fingers gingerly card through his wet strands, gently tousling it to help it dry. It’s far from the salon experience, but your nimble fingers lift and glide so the air can reach his lower layers. When a section is sufficiently dry, you carefully maneuver his head to a different direction to work on another section. It’s a whole, overwhelming, ridiculous process. Felix’s dignity definitely expired at some point in this bathroom, but the way your hands brush across his scalp is somehow intimate.

Finally, after several long minutes folded over like a hard taco shell in what sounded like a wind tunnel, you tug him, disoriented and flushed, back to the mirror. His hair is dry and completely blown to hell, and his cheeks are flushed for multiple reasons, but if questioned he can use the blood rushing to his head as a cover up.

Felix’s hair is a nest, but the color you managed to conjure from suspiciously inexpensive drug store hair dye is… a lovely, rich, neutral, ever-so-slightly warm toned dark brown. It’s almost black, but it’s softer, and it compliments his skin tone beautifully. He can’t help but gawk, jaw fully unhinging in astonishment. It’s so much better.

It’s also still undeniably chaotic, with some parts dried puffed up at odd angles, and other sections blown into a wave pattern he doesn’t have. If he squints and tilts his head, it gives, ‘I jammed a fork into an electrical outlet’ but it’s an improvement none the less.

You aren’t giving up. You dig a small hairbrush and a pastel blue flat iron out of your bag, balancing the iron on the edge of the sink. Felix has watched you use the tool at a low level as a makeshift iron for the fabric you work with, and is a little honored that you’re willing to use your sacred crafting materials to fix his fuck up.

Could it be love?

With tender hands, you comb through his turbulently dried hair, patiently working out the tangles to coax it into something more manageable to style.

“This iron only holds a charge for exactly twenty-two minutes,” You warn as you sort out the part along his scalp. “So we’re gonna have to zoom.” You’re confident despite the time constraint, and based on what you’ve already accomplished— necromancing his sautéed, deep-fried, then torched dandelion scalp into a spicy, caramelized main course— Felix knows you’re about to swing yet another feat of spell craft in the next twenty minutes.

He trusts you.

He also was not familiar with your game, he discovers, because you transform his hair in eleven minutes flat. There is a consistent, voluminous wave throughout and it looks effortless and chic, tapering down in a way that accentuates the angle of his jawline without narrowing out his face too much. Felix cannot recall a time where he has ever looked better. He looks like he’s smart enough to not let college boys dip his head in chemicals.

This is a learning experience, he realizes, as he takes in his stunning reflection you have spawned in just under an hour. Firstly, that bleach job (term used extremely loosely) was the stuff of nightmares. This is the first and final time he will ever sacrifice his skin tone for the sake of something as meaningless as team camaraderie again.

Secondly, Felix understands for the first time in this women’s bathroom in the arts building that there is something fucking celestial within you. You’re more than a fairy godmother— that lady wishes on a fucking capitalist, corporate-owned star that she could achieve what you do. You’re an angel.

Starstruck, Felix turns to you with unshed tears of gratitude pooling at his lash line. His wet, glistening, pathetic eyes flicker around your face like he’ll find the answers to all of his questions there. Even under harsh fluorescent lighting, you glow like it spawns from within. Maybe it’s your halo twinkling above you, bathing you in a soft, warm haze. The emotional whiplash of the last twenty-four hours shuts off the part of his brain that overthinks, and Felix boldly clasps his hands around yours and with his throat thickly clogged with appreciation murmurs, “You saved me. How can I repay you?”

And you have to be more than an angel— probably his assigned angel after all of this, because you beam with a smile too radiant for someone who performed CPR on hair and shrug, “No worries! Just buy me a meal.”

Just like that, Felix has another opportunity to take you on a date and wine and dine you. His heart, so recently spun around like it was tossed into a dryer, soars yet again. Is this what people mean when they talk about second chance romance? Probably not, but Felix has more important matters to agonize over.

This date.

He is determined to not fail this time, and takes you to the nice restaurant in town that students only eat at when their parents come to visit or they graduate despite your kind urging that a less expensive meal is no less worthy or appreciated.

Needless to say, nothing on the menu is off limits for you. You want a bottle of expensive wine? Done. Struggling to decide between two main courses? Why suffer? Order both! Don’t get him started on dessert. Just get one of everything. He just wants you to enjoy the evening— enjoy his company.

“Please, don’t hold back and order what you want.” Felix insists as he sits across from you, a leather bound menu in hand. The dimmed lighting paints a soft, intimate evening, casting an ethereal glow on your cheeks and the pristine off white table cloth. Because it’s a random Monday night and no where near a holiday, the restaurant is far from packed. Guests are spread out at tables mindfully placed apart to avoid neighbors so it feels more private. Fortunately, the two of you are seated next to a floor to ceiling window with a front-row view of a beautiful sunset. Felix can’t wish for a better setting.

You politely decline wine, but agree with an excited grin and a mischievous twinkle in your eyes to do damage on dessert. Of course you have a sweet tooth, Felix thinks with a gooey, lovesick expression dripping into his palm as he cradles his chin in it.

The evening passes too quickly, against all of Felix’s wishes that the night lasts forever. But, it’s lovely all the same. The meal is nice, but your company is the real treat. The conversation and jokes flow back and forth, light piano music providing dreamy ambient noise. Felix’s cheeks ache in the best way possible from smiling so much, he realizes when the plates are cleared and he senses the night is drawing to a close.

“Thank you for such a lovely evening, Felix.” You say, voice quiet and genuine, and the way you say his name makes his chest rumble like a thunderstorm. He is quick to brush off your thanks with a shake of his head that ruffles his fresh, dark brown fringe into his eyes.

“No, thank you for helping me,” And Felix knows this is it. This is his moment. He’s almost there, he just needs to commit. “And for going on a date with me.”

His lips are curved into a tentative, earnest smile even as he watches that one important word register on your face in real time. It’s minuscule, and Felix wouldn’t have caught it had he not spent hours in workshop studying the way your pretty features mold into equally pretty expressions, but your nerves go rigid, your face frozen as your eyes widen ever-so-slightly.

You look— really look— at the boy sitting across from you, warm candlelight softening his features. He’s a goof and a sweetheart, and you always feel content and earnestly cherished when you spend time with him. Felix, with his lanky, light bones and contrastingly rich, heavy voice, really listens to you, appreciates your hobbies without being overbearing, and does his best to offer comfortable companionship. There isn’t a reason that comes to mind as to why you shouldn’t see where this goes.

So, your features thaw, relaxing as you bashfully flutter your lashes and reply, “It’s been a really nice date.”

The splattering of freckles across his cheeks are illuminated by the candle that dances like his heart does in the moment. He tosses not coming off as too eager to the wind as he leans into the table, so unabashedly elated that his spine cracks. “I know you’re super busy, but are you available for another date sometime this week? It can be more lowkey than this, obviously.

You giggle at the rush of words spilling from his lips, shoulders lightly bouncing with your amusement. “You’re in luck! My afternoon class got canceled tomorrow, but I have assignments I really need to work on. Does a study date sound okay?”

And Felix can only think that this was all meant to be if even your unforgiving academic obligations are rooting for your romantic relationship. He’s already rambling out the date plan before his brain has even processed making one. “That’s perfect! We can study at my apartment— it’ll just be us— then I can take you to this really pretty cafe in town after, like a reward.“

You agree enthusiastically and Felix is willingly yanked up into the clouds by the scruff of his neck as a result. He’s giddy the remainder of the night, seeing you back to your place and bidding you goodnight with a polite but meaningful squeeze of your hand before you go inside.

Felix floats back to his apartment with the sweetness of dessert and your company lingering and suspending him in a euphoric daze. He doesn’t even remember the path he took back or keying in through the door. None of it is important though, because of tomorrow.

Felix slips his shoes off by the door and all but skips through the hall to his room.

He actually has another date.

His socks, slick against the obviously fake hardwood laminate, slip out from under him as he tosses the door to his room open without consideration of the adrenaline rushing against his pulse and skewing his perception of strength.

At his apartment.

Felix uses the momentum of the fall to twirl on his heel and catch himself before he busts his face on cheap, scratched laminate before gracefully gliding into his room.

Just the two of you.

And his massive, grinning, cursed (but still beloved) body pillow of Seo Changbin.

Felix crashes down gracelessly from heaven at terminal velocity when he makes eye contact with the stuffed cylinder reclining mockingly amidst his pillows. His insides are stone. Why is he his own biggest opp when it comes to his loyalty to Changbin, he laments as cutting, icy panic replaces the joyful adrenaline in an instant.

He leaps onto the bed, snatching up his stupid emotional support cuddle companion. Wide, trembling eyes dart to and from every potential hiding spot in the room, but it’s futile. The closet? Not big enough. The space under the bed? It’s too narrow to be stuffed under the frame. What about the ceiling? Who is Felix fucking kidding? The dread settles horribly in his stomach as the realization dawns on him that there isn’t a single spot in the apartment he can store it without risking you seeing it and never speaking to him again.

So, Felix does what he has to do.

He bursts out of his apartment, the bane of his hope for romance ironically hugged close to his chest as he books it at breakneck speed across campus. Changbin’s cheesy smile flops over Felix’s shoulder in time with his rushed footsteps like those stupid, floppy, inflatable tube guys as he weaves around craters in the sidewalk and leaps over curbs, shrubbery, and everything that stands in his way. He bounds up the stairwell of the apartment building, taking steps three at a time. “Where is this energy when you’re playing table tennis?” Floppy baguette Changbin demands in his ear via the rustling fabric. Who cares? Not Felix.

It doesn’t even cross his mind that he should have done the respectful thing and called ahead. Perhaps even texted. Especially since he doesn’t have a key to get in.

But at least one person in the universe is unwittingly on his side, and they swing the door to the apartment open right as Felix, huffing, puffing, and scorching red in the face from exertion, bounds down the hall. Minho steps out into the hallway, keys jingling as he fishes them out of his hoodie pocket. True to form, and as uninterested in other people’s shenanigans as always, he doesn’t so much as bat an eye at his unexpected guest. He doesn’t even react to Felix’s lack of highlighter-yellow hair as he zooms past. Again, who cares? Not Minho.

“Lock the door when you leave!” Minho airily calls without so much as a glance over his shoulder. With that, he is gone.

Felix doesn’t hesitate, charging through the common area and scrambling to the first bedroom door he sees— Jeongin’s— and shoving it open. No Jeongin. Fantastic.

With an exhausted huff, he flings Changbin’s stuffed cylinder on to Jeongin’s neatly made bed (which, suspiciously, is made, but Felix doesn’t have time to dwell on that). There’s a pitiful, quiet thunk as it lands on the plush comforter, and Changbin’s face stares blankly into space. It is now Jeongin’s curse to bear.

Felix doesn’t linger, doesn’t think about his wretched betrayal of his cuddle companion, and doesn’t catch his breath either. He reverses out of the room and slams the door to the crime scene closed. He flees the apartment— ensuring the front door locks per Minho’s demand— now beginning to wheeze a bit as he bounds down the sidewalk.

He’s pulled it off. No one can prove anything, and you’ll never know.

The biting night air chills his flushed cheeks. He can’t fight off the sappy smile as he mentally files a grocery list of study snacks you’ll enjoy and considers when to give you that pair of earrings tomorrow during your next date. And with those thoughts buzzing about in his mind, Felix is catapulted back into the clouds as he wishes for tomorrow to come sooner.

౨ৎTurned Tables Masterlist

౨ৎMasterlist

During his many years as an idol, Eunwoo had been subjected to many interview questions. Most of the responses were automatic, drilled into him as to what to say about promotions, music, scandals, stages, dramas, diets, ideal types, dating experience (”Of course, absolutely none at all! I’m dating my fans!”), and his wonderful company—eleven out of ten, no notes. From career-focused to just fucking invasive, Eunwoo could field any question without much effort or hesitation. Perhaps a tight, sarcastic smile here or there to signal to the interviewer that they were a raging asshole, but other than that, Eunwoo had maintained his dashing idol image.

Sanha was the first to comment on the gap in his image that appeared whenever one specific topic was brought up, snickering at a cut of one of Eunwoo’s interviews reposted to Instagram. The camera had remained stubbornly focused on Eunwoo as he rambled, his eyes twinkling and face more expressive than during any other segment.

“A whole four minutes and fifty-two seconds of you yapping about your top three ice cream flavors.” Sanha had grinned, shaking his head in feigned admiration. “Incredible. I love the part where you listed your top three flavors for every ice cream place within fifteen minutes walking distance from the company.”

Okay, so maybe he could get a little carried away when food was brought up.

And okay, yeah, it didn’t really mesh with his calm, cool, collected idol image, but who could fault a man nearing a decade in the entertainment industry for letting that image fade a little? Come on, Aroha’s didn’t stick around for the idol packaging, they were in it for the shenanigans and the creative journey. After almost ten years dedicated to his career, and fielding questions about his appearance, talent, and everything in between and beyond, he had reached the conclusion that his supporters were happiest when he was happiest. So, Eunwoo decided that the logical conclusion was that he needed to prioritize his happiness. And if rambling about his favorite culinary experiences made him happy, they’d gladly indulge him.

And indulge him they did.

Countless recommendations flooded his social media. Arohas sent in their favorite restaurants, cafes, bakeries, bars, food trucks, and little hidden gems for him to explore around the world. Eunwoo appreciated it, especially since a planned destination for a good meal made traveling a little less lonely. His favorite part of reading through the recommendations were the stories that accompanied them: retellings of celebrations, all-nighters, anniversaries, first meetings, breakups, solo dates, and fuzzy nights with rowdy friends, all experienced alongside culinary delights.

Eunwoo never felt more human than when he read (and sometimes reread) these stories, snickering and occasionally choking back thick tears at their adventures. So he decided to try and visit as many places as he could, organizing the recommendations by location, and noting when recommendations overlapped.

So far, Eunwoo was proud to say that Arohas had immaculate taste. He would have never discovered the intimate little places tucked back away from the more popular roads had it not been for them. Sometimes, he would even receive specific instructions on what to order (“The green chili pork tacos are life changing, I swear. Be sure to squeeze the lime over top!”). Other times, he would just take in the atmosphere and appreciate a moment of peace. It had become Eunwoo’s method of living his life to the fullest.

There was one specific place that had more overlapping recommendations than any others that Eunwoo hadn’t found the time to visit yet. Because unlike the obscure, hole-in-the-wall locations, this place was an absolute sensation.

Haru was irrefutably the best bakery in the city. Backed by bloggers, critics, and most importantly, other idols. Okay— maybe not most important in terms of culinary status, but what better marketing for a k-pop-themed bakery than actual idols’ Instagram posts? The owner had decorated and named all of their products according to groups, albums, songs, and lyrics. Not only did it appeal to fans, but idols often stopped by to take pictures with their dedicated pastries for cute, low-effort promotional pictures.

Eunwoo had admittedly been hesitant to visit at first. After all, it could easily be chalked up to a marketing gimmick— maybe the pastries weren’t that good, but the excitement surrounding the detailed presentation made everyone tastebud blind. He had been around long enough to know that looks could definitely be deceiving. Eunwoo also knew better than to believe that every idol actually consumed the pastries, other than a bite for the ‘gram. But even when Eunwoo zoomed in on Minho’s slice of Dibidibi-Devil’s Food Cake, the fluffy crumb and moisture level looked divine. So, casting his reservations aside, Eunwoo had vowed to make it to Haru some day. He just wasn’t sure when fate would allow it with his insane schedule.

Fate allowed it a lot sooner than he had been expecting.

As of late, fate came in the form of the infamous ‘97 line group chat. Specifically, Mingyu taking the initiative to revive the damn thing with a screenshot of Monsta X posing with massive macarons, some boldly mid-bite, others gaping comically at the size, and an idol smile and a thumbs up from the never-slipping Kihyun.

Monsta X Macarons?!?!?! HerOREO flavor?!?!? They look FIRE!!! Please please please someone come with me to Haru!!

Mingyu pleaded, the fire and underlined 100 emojis spilling over an entire line in the text box.

Thank you so much for sending food porn into the chat during our comeback prep bro.

Bambam’s scathing reply was near instant, closely followed up with Yugyeom’s frowny face and middle finger emoji.

Bummer bros.

Mingyu **was such a sympathetic friend. His sincerity could never be fully realized by the slanted mouth and frustrated faces pasted at the end of his message.

Okay so Bam and Gyeom can’t hang. The other four of you quit lurking!!!

Eunwoo sent his reply.

Sure, I’ve been wanting to go.

The moment his message sent, another response barged its way into the conversation.

YOOOOOOOOOOO I’M A REGULAR THERE!!!! I’M THE OWNER’S BEST FRIEND FROM HIGH SCHOOL!!! LETS FUCKIN GOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Jungkook’s enthusiastic message came as a bit of a surprise to Eunwoo. Jungkook had made friends in high school? Either way, he would appreciate the guidance on which pastries to try. Eunwoo had spent way too many hours scrolling Haru’s menu and display pictures late at night when he was craving something sweet. Everything looked absolutely heavenly, so he never managed to decide on an order for when he eventually visited.

His phone vibrated as the conversation continued.

Deadass bro?!?!

The deadest of asses bro

Eunwoo blinked and the three of them landed on a time and date where the stars aligned and their schedules miraculously opened up.

And that was how Eunwoo found himself in the front passenger seat of Jungkook’s car, with Mingyu occupying the back seat. Between the three of them, they only had filming and workouts scheduled before they were cleared for the remainder of the day. So in other words: it was a fucking miracle.

All three were dressed as inconspicuously as possible. Well— as inconspicuously as people with their occupations and brand sponsorships could be dressed.

Eunwoo himself had only had workouts that morning and early afternoon, so he had quickly showered and dressed in layers appropriate for the inconvenient time of the year when the temperature was biting in the morning but pleasant in the afternoon. He’d been a bit rushed for time, and he’d only partially dried his hair that was grown out longer than usual for an upcoming drama before slipping on his black padded jacket on his way out of the apartment.

Mingyu appeared to have scrambled to wash up after his workout as well, his black hoodie pulled up over his hair and the thick frames he rarely wore out perched on his nose. In contrast to the two of them, Jungkook was still professionally styled from whatever casual interview he’d filmed that morning. He’d toned down his meticulously waved hair by shoving on a beanie, but left his flawless makeup untouched— out of the ordinary, but not high on anyone in that car’s list of questions in the moment.

“What do you usually get though?” Mingyu persistently grilled Jungkook, leaning forward to hover behind the center console in the front seat. His knee bounced eagerly, a giddy grin plastered on his face.

Eunwoo appreciated that they were both foodies, although not to the extent he was. Mingyu wanted to have a game plan going in, less he stand at the counter indecisively until either the bakery closed or he succumbed to the pressure and bought one of everything. Eunwoo could relate— bakeries were not for amateurs.

“Seriously, everything’s good.” Jungkook supplied unhelpfully. “It depends on my mood, but I usually get a slice of Blood Sweat and Tiramisu, Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake, or, like, something else.” He mumbled the last part, fully angling his face away from them to check his side mirror.

Mingyu huffed in exasperation and immense judgement, “No motivations behind those choices huh, Jungkook?” Eunwoo could hear the eyeroll in Mingyu’s criticism. He decided to get a slice of the Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake, the spongy crumb pictured on the menu a near permanent image seared into his brain.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, his mouth dropping opening to defend his pastry orders (”I’ve always liked tiramisu— don’t look at me like that! The names are just coincidental!”), but Mingyu was not interested in his whining and shifted topics.

“So you’ve been friends with the owner since high school? How’d that happen?” He raised his eyebrows and stared pointedly at Jungkook, a teasing grin curling his lips up. Mingyu was intentionally riling Jungkook up; poking fun at his introverted and awkward personality from back then, and Jungkook could never ignore the bait, no matter how carelessly it had been tossed towards him.

“It happened when we became friends in high school.”

There was an extended beat of silence in the car where Mingyu waited for Jungkook to continue the story and Jungkook did not continue the story. Instead, a thick tension filled the car, clogging the conversation for the remainder of the drive. Eunwoo recognized Jungkook’s abrupt and abnormal evasion— mostly because this was a new level of unhelpful— even for Jungkook, but the way his hands curled into tight fists around the steering wheel was a dead giveaway that it was actually deeper than Jungkook was willing to let on.

Whatever, it wasn’t Eunwoo’s clowns or his circus.

That is, until he finally crossed the threshold into the bakery and the warm, comforting scent of almond, lightly toasted coconut, and a dash of cinnamon had him enchanted.

Or maybe it was you.

Bakeries tended to put him in a romantic mood; there was something sensual about them.

Maybe that was it.

Because Eunwoo couldn’t fathom any other reason for the weightlessness in his stomach when he saw you cheerfully greet them from behind the counter. Your customer service smile reminded him of the one taught to idols— emphasis on the puffy cheeks and twinkling eyes— but more genuine. There was a sweet quality to your voice too, like you were greeting a dear friend rather than a first-time customer.

The exterior resembled a cottage with its neutral wood detailing and scalloped overhang dangling beneath the script that spelled “Haru”. Plants decorated the outdoor seating, blocking off a private section for customers to sit amongst greenery and flowers. The inside decor was just as inviting: hanging plants draped across the ceiling, the same wood as outside pieced together the flooring, and pastel accents brightened the room. You fit right into the space, pretty in a fairytale kind of way, features dainty and endearing.

One glance and Eunwoo knew exactly what Jungkook’s cryptic behavior was about. He had known you since high school and hadn’t made a move yet? By Eunwoo’s calculations, that was a fucking fumble.

And not his problem.

If Mingyu picked up on the situation, he sure wasn’t putting forth his most sympathetic foot. It happened so fast, Eunwoo missed when it happened, but Mingyu had suddenly flung his hoodie off and speared his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame the air-dried strands into something more intentionally ruffled. Beneath the hoodie was one of his tight t-shirts that clung to his form and emphasized the size of his arms.

So inconspicuous was now off the table.

He lingered behind Jungkook as the trio approached the adorably decorated display case, with Eunwoo drinking in the calming environment at the back. He noted that you pressed your scraps into bite-sized, bunny-shaped cookies and sold them in packages near the register.

The instant Jungkook planted himself at the counter, the radiant smile melted off your face like the icing from a cupcake on a scorching summer day. Typically, best friends from high school greeted each other warmly, but nothing about the interaction validated Jungkook’s claim of youthful camaraderie going back years. The man just stared at you with his expectant, yet distinctly vacant expression until you broke the eerie silence.

“What can I get you?” Your tone was tight, face uncomfortably neutral. Your eyes darted down, unimpressed when Jungkook rested an elbow on the counter to lean in closer to you, which Eunwoo didn’t think he should be doing based on the hostility seeping from your cold glare.

“Come on,” He mumbled, volume low enough that Eunwoo had to shuffle forward to catch what he was saying. “You know what I want.”

If Jungkook was trying to be inconspicuous, he was absolutely failing. The entire scene looked far too shady for an exchange at a bakery. It was then that Eunwoo noticed the Epik High Brownies in the display case, and his eyes darted to the description underneath in alarm. In smaller print read, “Not pot brownies! You’re in South Korea, Sweetheart.” He pressed his lips together to fight an amused grin, instead turning his attention back to you.

“I’m sorry.” Your shoulders shrugged in feigned ignorance, lips lightly pouted. “I don’t know what you mean.” Then, your head tilted to the side, a clear indication that you had no intention of surrendering to Jungkook’s whims.

The man hung his head in defeat, begrudgingly muttering out his order: “Can I get two Jungkookies?”

Mingyu poorly concealed his guffaw with a cough, his hand slapping over his mouth to muffle the sound and something that sounded suspiciously like “loser.”

Instantly, you perked back up, voice positively saccharine as you keyed in the order on the register with slender, practiced fingers. “Of course! Two Jungkookies! Will that be all?”

Grumbling, Jungkook dug his phone out of his back pocket to pay, his other hand tapping the screen to add a custom tip. Eunwoo observed, exasperated as Jungkook pettily typed in a nineteen percent tip before hovering his phone over the reader. You held the bag of goodies out and Jungkook snatched them, the back of his hands betraying his embarrassed flush.

“These are my friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him before retreating to the side for Mingyu to step forward.

Mingyu’s eyes widened at the unhelpful introduction, rapidly bouncing between you and Jungkook, flustered and unsure how to follow up that disastrous interaction. His doubt that you and Jungkook had an amicable relationship was clear in the tension of his shoulders and the nervous press of his lips. Would he be guilty by association?

But the original friendly demeanor you wore when they first entered the bakery returned, and you coaxed him forward with a warm smile.

“Um, hi, yeah. I’m his friend. Um, Mingyu.” He cracked a hesitant smile, fumbling through his introduction. Mingyu scrambled to find his footing, raking his fingers back through his dark hair yet again. Then, it was like the cameras were rolling and his ‘puppy idol’ charm activated. The professionalism must have been stored in his post-workout biceps with the way he discreetly flexed them while he ordered, gesturing up at the menu, into the display case, back up to his hair again for the glory shot of his shoulders. He quirked his lips upward in a lopsided smirk, playing the part of heartthrob like his livelihood depended on it.

To your credit, not once did you stumble. You fielded every question and request professionally and kindly. Your eyes were either focused on your task of gingerly boxing up the pastries with practiced ease, or they held his uncomfortably affectionate gaze with pleasant apathy.

Mingyu sensed that his advances were falling short, and in a burst of desperation, he resorted to more blatant flirting as you carefully slid the box containing his Ready to Love Rugelach and Aju Nice Confetti Cake across the counter.

“Are you sure you’re into floral?” You asked, lips twisting into a concerned pout. “There’s a hint of rose in the rugelach— real rose, not the artificially sweetened kind— it’s not for everyone.”

Mingyu chuckled breathily as he slipped his actual wallet out of his pocket, an action that had Eunwoo raising an unimpressed brow. Was he really desperate enough to flash the— yes, he absolutely was.

“Don’t worry,” Mingyu maintained eye contact as he winked, sliding his black card out of his wallet with a flick of two long fingers. “you’re sweet enough to make up for it.”

Kim Mingyu, like the majority of the smart phone owning population, had Apple Pay set up.

Your polite smile remained firmly in place, eyes twinkling mischievously as you told him to enjoy. Mingyu’s last-ditch attempt had clearly whiffed, and he retreated off to the side and into Jungkook’s clutches.

Fuming, Jungkook firmly clapped his hand onto Mingyu’s shoulder with the knowledge that today had been arm day for Mingyu, and that the ache would have settled deep in his bones by now. The taller man flinched and snapped his eyes closed, concealing his hiss of agony with a deep inhale as if he were appreciating the delightful scent of the bakery.

Mingyu’s real misery arrived not with Jungkook’s blunt nails digging into the skin of his shoulder, but by way of you perking up and addressing him in farewell: “Oh, and if you see Dokyeom, tell that sweetheart I said hello!” You chirped, an unmistakably genuine light in your eyes.

Mingyu visibly deflated, his smile tight and his shoulders sagging under the weight of failure and Jungkook’s heavy palm. He forced out an insincere laugh, the sound hollow even to him. “You’ve met DK?”

“Of course! He’s here all the time.” You giggled, clearly affectionate toward the kind vocalist. “Nothing gets between him and a slice of Carat Cake. He even bought an entire Cheolie Pie once!”

The curses directed at his fellow bandmate were blatantly carved into Mingyu’s hardened eyes as he swallowed the bitter pill that had he never even stood a chance. And to be done in by one of his own, at that.

Finally, the time had come for Eunwoo to make his final decision on what to get. He casually stepped up to the counter, flashing a partially kind, partially apologetic closed-lipped smile. He was expecting the same friendly, business-oriented treatment you’d given Mingyu. But, to his surprise, he witnessed your demeanor shift yet again. While you’d been admirably confident and collected around his friends, completely unruffled by their— quite honestly, obnoxious— behavior, you abruptly went quiet before him. Downcast eyes evaded his as he introduced himself.

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Eunwoo.” He continued, “Everything looks so good, I really can’t decide what to get.” Eunwoo refused to allow his nerves to seep into his body language, but you still hadn’t even glanced up to him as he spoke. Had you already decided you didn’t like him? He should have come alone; he would have made a much better first impression. Eunwoo reflexively his teeth into his bottom lip, digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Do you have any preferences?” Your voice was significantly fainter, and your fingers twisted the edge of your floral apron, rolling it from the corner.

Off to the side, Jungkook’s attention shifted from his relentless bullying of Mingyu in favor of whipping to your face like he had no clue who the fuck you were, round eyes vacant and mouth hanging open.

“Like, fruit or chocolate?”

Eunwoo observed the way your lashes fluttered and the faint heat that glazed your cheeks as you avoided looking at him, and it all clicked into place.

He chuckled lightly, the pressure in his chest fading and leaving something warm in its place. So you were just shy. “I like everything.”

But Eunwoo wouldn’t make you pack and ring up one of everything, despite his deepest desires aching to try everything and extend the interaction for as long as possible (and to, you know, actually try one of everything). He’d cut you some slack today and limit himself to five pastries.

But which five? He indecisively peered into the display case housing pastries uniformly decorated with animal faces, fruit, and nods to the k-pop industry. It really was an impossible decision to make.

“What do you recommend?” He decided to consult the real expert, and also try to gently encourage you to look him in the eye with exposure therapy. If you were able to hold a conversation with him, especially one in your area of expertise, surely you’d gather yourself enough to make eye contact at least once.

He observed as you abandoned the hem of your apron in favor of squeezing the cuffs of your sweater in your fists. “Well,” Your eyes trailed over the display case, and you snapped your professional competence back into functioning gear.

“The Chogi-White Chocolate Cake and Red Velvet are the most popular, but we just started making our seasonal Russian Roulette Raspberry cheesecake.” You indicated each dessert as you spoke, still quieter than before, but confident. That slice of cheesecake would absolutely be walking out with him, Eunwoo decided. The swirls of fresh raspberry marbling through the filling hypnotically had him more than convinced.

“I’d like a slice of the cheesecake, please.” He requested, watching you crack the display case open and gingerly slide the dessert out to be boxed up. “And could I also get a slice of the Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake?” Eunwoo gestured to dessert next to the cheesecake.

“Of course.” You nodded, keeping your attention fixed to your task. The flush of your cheeks still hadn’t quite settled. “Is there anything else?”

Eunwoo eyed the Strawberry Skies Blueberry Pie, the sugar dusting practically sparkling under the warm sunlight spilling in through the bakery windows, and willed his self control to prevent him from purchasing an entire pie. He swallowed and forced his head to turn away.

“Oh, there’s also the monthly TXT’s if you’re interested.” You sensed his struggle somehow without even reading his expression. Just then, Eunwoo noticed the small section of the menu dedicated to Tomorrow X Tasty’s. A grin curled the corners of his lips up at the witty name for specials, which were BamBam Butterscotch Kisses and Orange Caramels this month. He added both to his order and waited patiently as you swiftly collected all of his choices into one bag. Then, you turned and placed it on the counter next to the register, quickly adding up his total with fluid flicks of your fingers.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” You asked, still fixated on the screen of the register. Eunwoo shifted his weight onto one leg, reaching out in the direction of the register separating the two of you. Out of your periphery vision, you saw his hand move near your face, startling you enough for your eyes to finally flick up to his face in question.

“Oh, sorry!” Eunwoo beamed, a wide smile scrunching the apples of his cheeks up and crinkling his eyes. He was just so dashing. “Last thing, I promise!” He passed the bag of cinnamon sugared bunny shaped cookies he’d plucked from the basket beside the register to you. Now that you had finally looked at him, Eunwoo could confirm that you were just as charming as he initially thought. Your eyes were warm and brilliant, housing a kindness that comforted everyone that met them. The environment you created in the bakery reflected that kindness, and he anticipated finding out if your baking did as well.

“No worries.” You reassured him with a soft curve of your lips, slipping the bunny cookies into the back so they wouldn't crush any of the other pastries.

Eunwoo tapped his phone to pay after pressing button to add a twenty percent tip. With steady hands you passed him the bag of pastries across the counter, and Eunwoo couldn’t resist taking advantage of the opportunity to brush his fingers against yours during the transfer. Probably because of the air conditioning blasting on high in the bakery, your hands were chilled in contrast to the bashful heat of your cheeks.

“Thank you,” Eunwoo smiled with as much warmth as he could muster, his eyes crinkling. Stray dark strands of his hair swished into his eyes and he quickly flicked them out of the way. He could see out of the corner of his vision that Jungkook had manhandled Mingyu to an empty table a few feet away, but Eunwoo still dropped the volume of his voice for privacy. “I’ll be sure to enjoy them and come back.” He promised earnestly.

“Please do.” You held his gaze, and Eunwoo himself nearly melted, limbs feeling gooey like a glaze, at the smile you awarded him, spring-like in its comfortable warmth and vibrance.

He retreated to join Jungkook and Mingyu at the table, and immediately upon Eunwoo sliding into the chair, Jungkook rounded on him. “I brought you here to get snacks, not flirt with my friend!” He complained, hands curled tightly into fists and pressing into the table top. Eunwoo doesn't look up as he carefully removes his heaping slice of Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake from the bag, setting the box before him.

“Mingyu was the one flirting.” Ruthlessly, Eunwoo tosses Mingyu to the wolves (or wolf, he supposed, since it was just Jungkook), effectively distracting Jungkook. He tipped the lid of the box back and discovered that he was right from his assessment of the pictures online; the cake was light, moist, and had a lovely crumb. The enticing scent of almond wafted into the air, not overly sweet but still carrying a warm nutty note. He cut a sizable bite, impressed with the absence of crumbs flaking off, and scooped the cake into his mouth. Eunwoo leaned back into the chair, savoring the bite and ascending to a level of ecstasy so high, it had to be illegal in this country. He wasn't in a cafe anymore surrounded by his friends bickering—it was just him, his slice of cake, and for some reason, the soft chime of bells.

He glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to see if a new customer had stepped through the door, but no one was there. Odd. Eunwoo twisted back to the table where Jungkook and Mingyu fired juvenile insults back and forth.

He was definitely coming back to shoot his shot without these two dumbasses getting in the way.