#svt.fic

“vernon…?” you ask quietly, drawing in a breath to yawn. you stretch deeply and notice the weight and feel of the fabric of the duvet over your legs where it hadn’t been when you’d fallen asleep a while ago.

“hey, baby.” vernon’s voice is quiet and his breath is warm on your face, a physical manifestation of his words.

when you open your eyes, he’s knelt beside the bed, using one arm as a cushion for his chin while the other strokes gentle lines over your cheek, his palm warm and threatening to lull you back to sleep.

“what time is it?”

“almost three am. what time did you go to sleep?”

you shrug as best you can with one of your shoulders pressed into the mattress. “only about an hour or so ago i think. i was waiting for you to come home, but i guess i fell asleep.”

vernon’s sigh is quiet with something akin to remorse. his fingers press a little tighter into your cheek like he’s trying to physically convey whatever it is he’s feeling. “i meant to come home a lot earlier, but the guys wanted to stay out later than planned and someone had to help get them home. if hoshi hadn’t been requiring constant supervision, i would have let you know.”

you shake your head, doing your best to lean your cheek into his palm. vernon was always good about messaging you when plans changed or something happened, so while you’d been a little anxious when he didn’t text you that he was heading home, you figured it had been for a good reason; and, as expected, a drunk hoshi was always a good reason.

“it’s okay,” you whisper, letting your eyes fall shut, reveling in the rough warmth of vernon’s hand against you, thumb still painting those hypnotically comforting lines into you. “i guessed something came up, so i wasn’t too worried.”

you hear him let out an exhale that doubles as a laugh, that breathy chuckle of his. “were you planning on falling asleep? when i walked in, your phone was playing a random youtube video and you weren’t even under the covers.”

he laughs again when you shake your head and mumble “s’n accident. i really wanted to wait for you.” he mutters his own answer under his breath, something that sounds strangely like “so cute.” 

silence settles over the two of you, broken only by the sound of your breath rustling the duvet cover and the soft brush of skin against skin. you’re not quite sure how much time passes, too focused on fighting off sleep to enjoy more time with your boyfriend because truthfully, you can never get enough time with him. alas, eventually his hand departs, leaving a chill in its wake, and when you whine a little, he leans forward to press his forehead to yours.

“i’ll be right back, ‘kay? i just need to get ready for bed. i’ll make it quick, promise.”

and his word is always his bond; if he promises something, he always follows through. again, you’re not sure how long vernon is away because you’re caught floating somewhere between total consciousness and temporary oblivion. but he does return at some point because the lights turn off and then, with all the gentleness possible in the world, he slides into bed next to you. he scoots in close, draping one arm around your waist and tucking his nose into the crook of your neck.

“you waiting for me to get back so you can finally go back to bed?” he asks, his voice already heavy and rough with sleep. his breath sinks through the thick cotton of his sweater you “borrowed” (see: stole) when you had gotten ready for bed earlier in the night and that alone lulls you closer to slumber’s welcoming embrace.

you hum quietly in assent, looping your arm over his and intertwining your fingers against your sternum. he presses in impossibly closer, not a single part of the back of you that goes untouched. it’s as if he can’t get close enough to you and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s simply feeling more affectionate than usual or there’s still a little bit of alcohol lingering in his system. but with the weight and warmth of him against you, you can’t even complain.

“well, ‘m here now, so go back to sleep, baby.”

his fingers flex around yours, squeezing tight into your palm before relaxing a little. a way to say “i love you” without vocalizing it. he’s out like a light almost immediately, his breathing slow and steady at the nape of your neck, but while you’re exhausted too, you stay awake long enough to notice that between the time vernon came home and the moment you woke up, he’d plugged your cellphone in to charge it, covered you with the duvet, taken off the hairband you’d had on your wrist, rearranged your pillows just the way you like. 

it’s always the little things with him, things that only he remembers and responds to. out of every person you’ve been in a relationship with, it’s vernon who has shown you what love, real love, looks and feels like. just the thought of everything he did for you tonight in fifteen minutes of being home is enough to have your heart swelling with unadulterated adoration.

you tighten your fingers around his for just a moment, a reciprocal “i love you.” because how could you not love him when you were his first priority upon arriving home or when he holds you the way he’s holding you now, gentle and warm with his chest rising in shallow breaths against you.

you’ve discussed it before, the idea of being “it” for each other, but right now, as you’re finally allowing sleep to take over, you know with absolute certainty that he’s it. there is no other person on earth who could love you the way vernon does; this is what you want for the rest of your life, this is who you want to fall asleep and wake up with. it could never be anybody else.

lost in your own world, mingyu’s footsteps don’t register until he’s right behind you, wrapping strong arms around your waist and resting his chin atop your shoulder. the affection shocks, but doesn’t startle you; rather, you lean into his body, welcoming the warmth of him against you.

“just put the last box in the car,” he says, breath hot and comforting against the exposed skin of your neck. “are you ready to go?”

you nod absently, hardly acknowledging his words, but you make no move to leave. you’re too focused on the fact that over the course of the last two days, every trace of you in this apartment has disappeared. every framed picture, every half-read book, every little shoe scuff by the front door left after a long night of studying or partying with mingyu and his friends. it’s like you never even existed in this space, four years wiped clean or moved out.

“you okay?” your boyfriend’s voice is light as air, warm like hot chocolate. he snuggles in closer, arms wrapped impossibly tighter around you; if you focus enough, you’re sure you can feel the steady beat of his heart against your shoulderblade.

“yeah,” you respond in kind, soft and quiet so as to not break the silence, strangely peaceful. even the quietest sounds echo off the now-bare white walls of your bedroom. “just reminiscing, i guess.”

you can feel him nod against your shoulder, soft hair brushing against your temple. he probably feels that same cool sadness that permeates the entire apartment that you do. of course, he’s spent less time in this apartment than you have, two out of four years of residency, but so many milestones of your relationship have happened in this apartment. it’s sad to be relinquishing your claim on this apartment, to allow someone else to come here and overwrite everything with their own memories.

“i get that,” mingyu affirms, voice rumbling in his chest. “so much of our relationship happened here. like, remember before we were together, we got so drunk and i was craving one of those microwave macaroni cups?”

you laugh at last, a breathy little giggle that has your boyfriend pressing his cheek against yours, a smile evident on his face. “yeah, when you tried to open it but spilled noodles everywhere and then forgot to put water in and nearly caught my microwave on fire?”

his chuckle is deep, resonating against your back, through your shoulder, a comforting sensation. “that’s a little dramatic–”

you slap playfully at one of his forearms. “no, it isn’t, gyu! the cup was literally on fire! there were flames!”

if he wasn’t currently using you as a prop to lean his weight, he’d be doubled over at the waist right now. for two and a half year, he has claimed that the macaroni incident really wasn’t as serious as you’ve always made it out to be, but it is true; he’d been so blasted out of his mind that when he’d tried to make a snack at almost two in the morning, he’d nearly ruined your microwave because there wasn’t any water in the cup and the noodles caught fire. even in the haze of alcohol and mild anger towards him for it, you’d known how much you liked having him around, always making you laugh and warm from inside out like he was kindling a fire that burned in your bone marrow.

“or how about that time i was visiting over here and it snowed so much that i couldn’t leave and we got stranded inside for, like, a week?”

you nod, smiling to yourself at the memory. it was just after new year’s and he’d come over for a movie night and sleepover before the spring semester started since you’d have less time to see him. as luck would have it, it started snowing a quarter of the way through the first movie; the next morning, snow was still coming down and weather reports said feet upon feet of snow. you hadn’t been together long at that point, just a few months, so it was a long six days for the two of you. but you had come out of it stronger and the better for it; there was tangible proof that you could cohabit a space and not kill each other or want to break up.

your shared laughter peters out and quiet overtakes the space once more, the both of you snuggling into one another, each considering your own favorite memories that were made within these walls. so much has happened here. the two of you have changed so much. the idea of moving on, of changing is something daunting, insurmountable even, like you’re leaving an integral piece of you behind. but the most integral part of your life stands with you now, his arms wrapped tight around you, his nose buried into the junction of your shoulder and neck, something stable in the midst of a big tidal wave that threatens to upset your whole life.

eventually, mingyu leans back and sets his hands on your shoulders, turning you in a slow half-circle to face him head on. his face is soft and welcoming, comfort to the highest degree that belongs solely to you. his eyes are warm, dark serenity.

“i know you’re sad about moving out and honestly…? i kind of am, too,” he admits, a bashful expression passing over his features for a fleeting moment. he has reason to, memories and a toothbrush on the bathroom sink counter and a shelf in the pantry just for his favorite snacks. this has been his home just as much as yours for the past few years. “but it’ll be okay. we’re in this together.”

his hands find yours and he holds them up between your bodies, palm to palm, fingers locked together.

“we’ll make new memories in our place. you hear that? our place. we get to officially share a home. like, we can say that we actually live together. isn’t that so cool?” his eyes light up and he’s right, it is cool, being able to say that you live with your boyfriend. “and just so you know, there’s no one else i’d rather be doing this with. it’s scary, sure, but anything is possible with you.”

and there’s hope and possibility shining on his face. there’s trepidation, yes, but you can feel the trust and the optimism he has like it’s transferring through the press of your palms. it’s intoxicating and while the fear of moving on is still there, it begins to melt away under his touch. so you nod and shake your joined hands a little bit, which makes him grin bright and beautiful.

“you’re right.”

“i know.”

you roll your eyes at him, but smile anyways. your hands fall apart from each other and mingyu turns on his heels, slipping an arm over your shoulder and tugging you close to his side. there’s a confidence in his stride as he leads you towards the front door of the apartment, past the echoey emptiness.

“let’s get out of here. let’s go home.”

how can you say no?

now, he's walking home after an almost fifteen-hour day and he wants nothing more than to get cozy and sleep for a solid ten hours. he's hungry, he's cold, his entire body aches, and for reasons unknown, he just... misses you. you: his roommate, his best friend, his other half. he hasn't seen you all day and he just knows that seeing you right now would make his immediate future so much better.

he shakes his head as he presents his keycard to the reader of the apartment building. what is he doing, thinking about you like that? you're best friends and he doesn't like you more than that; he can't.

but you want to, a little voice in the back of his head says.

he blocks it out, stepping into the warmth of the lobby and sighing audibly. he has more important things to think about and do than ruining the best relationship he's ever had in his life. it's not worth losing that all because of one little unwanted thought.

the elevator is unfathomably warmer, but it still doesn't even begin to penetrate the bitter cold that has seeped directly into his bone marrow. he aches all over, feet dragging down the carpeted hall towards your shared apartment's door. he's never been so relieved in his whole life as his key slips into the lock with no resistance, as the door opens effortlessly without a creak.

he stays silent, toeing out of his sneakers and replacing them with his house slippers. his keychain goes in the small dish in the entryway table and his backpack on the hook next to the door. home and routine, everything has a place: you have matching keychains that go next to each other in the dish, specified places for your items to slip right in next to each other, all even and perfect.

it's his favorite thing about coming home after a long day, seeing his shoes tucked into the rack next to yours, your bags paired together, keys discarded side by side.

he slips quietly into the living room, expecting darkness, but he's openly surprised when his expectation is subverted. netflix is idling on the tv screen, available shows cycling through on repeat, and there you are, not in bed, but on the couch, your back pressed firm against the back cushions. a tartan blanket is tucked over you and his eyes trail, falling on the cord, and he realized you pulled out the heated blanket he'd gotten you for christmas.

he tries (valiantly, he swears) and fails to fight the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, the warmth in his chest that fills him with a certain kind of joy. you'd expressed gratitude when you'd unwrapped the thing at christmas, but he hadn't seen you use it until now. it must be cozy because you don't often fall asleep on the couch like this unless you're really, truly comfortable.

it seems enticing.

and, mind still steeped in winter cold, he can't stop himself. glad he changed into sweatpants for dance classes in the evening, he moves with a practiced gentleness, moving to the couch and pulling back the blanket just enough to slide in next to you. the thing is toasty under his fingers and he knows this is exactly what he needs.

once he settles, knees knocking against your own, he realizes just how close you are. he's not completely clueless, but you're so near that your noses almost touch. it sends his heart into such a frenzy that he swears it's the reason you start stirring.

"soonyoung?" you ask quietly, eyes cracking open as you stretch your legs. "when did you get home?"

"just now," he replies just as softly. he can feel himself go all soft and gentle with you like this and he knows there's no coming back from that realization. "didn't mean to wake you up. sorry."

you shake your head as best you can and scoot in closer. "no big deal. i probably needed to get up and move to my bed for the night anyway."

he goes still and, after much deliberation, he slides his arm over your waist, tucking his hand between your body and the back cushion of the couch. you glance up at him groggily and he has to will himself calm.

"let's just stay here for a while," he says, tipping his head forward and resting his forehead against yours.

"are you okay?" you question. it's a simple ask, but it sends his heart reeling. "you're not usually this affectionate."

but for all your seemingly resistance to whatever is transpiring in this moment, you're not exactly rejecting it. and it's not like the two of you don't get physically affectionate ever; it's a norm in your relationship, it just feels different this time.

so soonyoung nods and lets out a little huff of a laugh. "yeah, i'm okay. it's just cold out tonight and i had to walk home from the station."

finally, finally your arm slips around him in reciprocation after his confession. it leaves little space between you that goes untouched and very little reservation in his mind that this is anything more than platonic.

he doesn't know what changed between this morning and ten mintues ago, but he's not complaining.

"i told you to not go today," you say softly as your eyes slide closed and you readjust, tucking yourself perfectly against his chest, your head fitting just right underneath his chin. "i told you."

"yeah, you did," soonyoung relents, smiling to himself. "i should have listened to you."

"you should always listen to me," you respond, voice muffled by his hoodie. he can feel the warmth of your breath through the thick fabric and it makes him want to smile even more. "it's okay though since you're here now."

he nods and lets a comforting, tranquil silence settle over the living room. he basks singularly in the weight of your body pressed against him and the warmth of the heated blanket tucked over the top of you two. paired with the freshly falling snow he can see through the window over the back of the couch, it is like the pair of you are the only two people left in the world.

"are you sure you're okay?"

"yeah, i'm fine. we can talk about it in the morning, promise. go back to sleep."

"m'kay. g'night, hosh."

"goodnight."

he knows he'll have to come clean in the morning, which scares him more than anything. but for now, it is just the two of you and the heated blanket and the snow beyond the window and things are okay. he has to believe they'll stay that way.

you don’t want to relive the conscious hours of your day, however short they were, so you try to force them out of your mind. still, you’re left with the acute feeling of emptiness, the one that plagues you, taunts you. 

you achieved nothing today. you’re a failure. you’re worthless.

realistically, you know that having a lazy day doesn’t define worth or success or anything else. realistically, you should be proud of yourself for having had the energy to even get out of bed this morning to make an actual breakfast, to attend class, to return a book you’d checked out from the library. realistically, you did simple things that felt like the most difficult obstacles you’d ever faced, so that has to count for something.

and you want to feel that way. you know you should find some comfort in knowing that despite it all, you still managed to accomplish something today, no matter how small and simple it was. but it’s not enough, it doesn’t feel like enough. your to do list feels insurmountable, a mile long with homework and projects and appointments, and instead of working on them, you decided to slack off, sleeping and dissociating for longer than you’d been awake. the echoing you’re worthless sentiment plays on loop for so long, you’re starting to think the voice is right.

so there you sit, hunched over your lap, staring at the bit of duvet that peeks through your legs. you don’t register that you’re crying until your eyes have welled so much that tears are splashing on the backs of your hands. the release of emotions, ones you’ve been bottling up and keeping on lock for who knows how long, should feel cathartic, getting them out of your system, and it does, but more than anything, it makes you feel so…

pathetic. you’re pathetic.

what could you possibly be going through that has you this stressed and strung out? school? you’re only taking 15 credit hours. work? it’s part time and all you really do is sit around and chill. there’s simply no reason for you to feel like this, to be so anxious and depressed all the time that you feel like you’re suffocating and nothing can save you. no reason. pathetic.

you don’t know how long you sit there, crying silently because the tears keep coming and you don’t know what you can do to stop them. your hands are awash in salt and liquified sadness. you suppose it doesn’t really matter, though, because at this point, you’ve spent nine and a half hours staring into the void, so what’s a little more? besides, maybe if you cry enough, you’ll somehow lose that little voice in the tears too and wouldn’t that be lucky.

so you cry. and you cry. and you cry. and it doesn’t heal you or make you feel completely whole again, but when your eyes have gone completely dry, you’ve exhausted yourself to the point that you don’t feel that overwhelming pressure of not being enough for anybody, anything, yourself. but maybe even worse, you just feel numb. sure, you’ve temporarily cried the depression and anxiety out of your system, but you replaced it with true, genuine nothingness.

so now, you sit. and it’s a repeat of the last nine hours, eyes unwavering from where your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined. you know you should eat something, drink some water, maybe take a shower. you really want to change into some more comfortable clothes, but you just can’t bring yourself to get out of bed, to tear your gaze away from your hands. you know you should do these things, but you can’t, you don’t want to, you never want to.

the knock at your bedroom door scares the shit out of you and you startle, head jerking so quickly that you feel like you almost pull a muscle. lee jihoon is standing in the threshold, his eyes wide and uncertain, a takeout bag in one hand and his keychain in the other. he looks a little breathless, his shoulders heaving with the effort of regaining air. somehow, even disheveled and looking a little horror villain adjacent being backlit by your hall light, he’s still the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life.

and you don’t deserve him. you know that, everyone knows that.

“what are… what are you doing here, jihoon?” you ask, inwardly cursing yourself for how broken and watery your voice sounds. you swore you’d cried yourself dry, but there are still remnants of your tears and it makes you feel like a child who just got done throwing a tauntrum.

“you haven’t been answering your phone. i was… worried,” he answered. he keeps the distance between you, making home in the doorway. the plastic bag rustles quietly, white noise that cuts through the tv static in your head.

“sorry. i was… napping.” it’s the most unconvincing, feeblest lie you’ve ever told in your life. even if it’s partly true, it doesn’t matter when you’re sure you look like a mess, tear tracks and bloodshot eyes. there’s no hiding it in the slightest.

“can i sit?” the worry from his eyes has started bleeding into his voice and you feel yourself back on that edge, teetering on the very fine, precarious line between being at least a little okay and falling back into the mind-numbing sadness headfirst. he wants your consent, he wants to know it’s okay to approach and be close because he cares.

it’s an obligation.

it’s not, you know that. if he felt obligated to be here, he wouldn’t look so concerned as he crosses the room, wouldn’t have a bag that you recognize as the takeout bags your favorite restaurant uses, wouldn’t be sitting said food and keys on your dresser before closing the distance between you. he hesitates once he stands before you, gaze carefully studying your face intently. if it was an obligation, he wouldn’t be wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his body, cradling the back of your head as you press your face tightly into his abdomen.

the tears come back in full force, no concrete reason as to why. the hard, solid wall of that suffocation is pressing back in again, but on top of that, you feel a kind of relief you’ve not had in a while, the overwhelming kindness of being loved by someone. there are inklings of those thoughts, but with jihoon’s heartbeat under your ear, the strength of his chest, you make an effort of blocking it out. it’s the most you’ve felt at home in a while.

and you know it’s love, real genuine love, because jihoon doesn’t say a single thing the entire time, even when your tears most certainly have soaked through his hoodie and started bleeding into the shirt underneath. no, he holds you securely against him as if he’s trying to hold every piece of you together because you can’t do it on your own anymore and even if he can’t keep you all together, he can pick up the stray shards after.

eventually, his voice finds a crevice and slips in through the cracks, all soft and love and everything good in the world. it’s like he’d been born to be the personification of compassion and giving and love.

“we don’t have to talk about it, but you know… i’m always here for you. when you need me. i’m not going anywhere.”

you nod against him, your hair catching on the rough fabric of his sweater. somewhere, out of the tightness of your throat, you choke out a thank you, keeping your fingers twisted up tightly at his back. you don’t want to move, not yet, not when this is the safest you’ve felt in a long while. being in his arms, it reminds you that you haven’t seen him for a bit, your schedules not lining up to allow for anything as simple as a facetime call. and maybe this is what you needed.

you know jihoon isn’t going to cure you because contrary to the fairy tales and the contemporary romances, all the harlequin novels, love isn’t the remedy for all things. it isn’t going to balance out the chemicals in your brain or take away all the stress you feel weighing down your shoulders just about every waking second. it’s not some miracle treatment, even if it feels pretty damn close to it.

but even if it isn’t, it feels like a good start. so far away from home, from friends and family, you always feel a little stranded, out of your depth here in the big city. you don’t have the comforts of a home cooked meal that your mother and grandmother helped make from scratch, none of the security of being in a place you’re so deeply familiar with, so intrinsically connected to. 

jihoon helps, though. he always has. an anchor in otherwise tumultuous waters, he grounds you in a way that nobody else in the entire population of seoul can. some of his other friends who have essentially adopted you come close (wonwoo will always be your most cherished of them), but they will never set your heart and mind at ease the way their producer does. not when he has all of your favorites memorized, not when he writes songs meant for your ears alone, not when he shows up after a day of radio silence with takeout in tow and unlimited physical contact to give, even when you both know that he isn't a physically affectionate person.

“you don’t have to weather these things alone, okay? but i’m not going to push you to talk about things you aren’t ready to talk about.” he breathes in deep and you pull back from where you’ve been nestling your cheek against his sternum, electing to look up at him. his eyes are still all soft and warm, welcoming, home. “but we are gonna do some hard things, alright? and i’ll be there every step of the way if you want me to be.”

your eyes well with tears again, a testament to how much you can cry while being what you can only assume is incredibly dehydrated, and even through the tears, you see jihoon start at the sight of them, the gears of his head practically visible as they kick into overdrive. but you smile and shake your head, trying to tell him not to worry about it without speaking (the lump in your throat would make it entirely impossible for you to get the simplest whisper out at this point).

even now, the thought of getting out of bed to eat, to shower, to change clothes feels daunting. you’ve got him right here wanting to help and they still feel so incredibly formidable that it puts you on edge, but he’s here and you’ve done so many things with him. there is trust and history and love here; he has seen every part of you down to the most unstable, most vulnerable of them all and not once has he ever judged or implied that he feels that it’s tiring having to care for you when you can’t do it yourself.

rather, jihoon has always taken a soft spoken kind of pride in it for the both of you. he has always set aside everything, pushed things off and canceled on people, when he knows you need his support. and he’s always been there through every single step. he’s never given the indication that he is anything short of the most dutiful, caring person in the history of the world.

so you let him help you out of bed, keeping one of his arms hooked around you for support. you let him sit you at the coffee table in your living room and you let him feed you from takeout boxes, laughing in tandem when his chopsticks don’t want to cooperate and he drops noodles all over the table. you let him help you into the shower and you let him go through your shower routine for you so that you don’t have to expend energy you don’t have. 

and after all of that, he still insists on helping. he helps you into pajamas and once you’re nestled in bed, he disappears into your main living area, cleaning up dinner and finally switching your laundry from the washer to the dryer. he does the things that you hadn’t accounted for in your day, the chores that you hadn’t designated spoons for.

and even still, after all of the tidying up is done, he crawls into bed next to you and beckons you toward him. he sets aside his preferences and lets you rest against him, soft bodies leaning and pressing into each other, melting so that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. your head rises and falls in time with his breathing, his heartbeat under your fingertips, his arms heavy against you as they keep you anchored against him.

and that's how you find yourself angrily staring into his eyes with his arm around your waist, holding you steady.

“good thing i was here to catch you. can’t have my wife out here getting her pretty self hurt now, can i?” he grins, all white teeth and pink lips.

“stop calling me that,” you grunt, hands on his pecs in an attempt to push him away. “i am not your wife.”

“yet,” he counters with a wink and you’re reminded why you hate him. “you’re not my wife, yet. we're still young, though; got all the time in the world.”

“all the time in the—? as if i would ever marry you,” you grumble, successfully tearing yourself out of his hold at last. he lets you go, pouting even as he checks you out shamelessly.

“and why not? you implying that i’m not a catch or something?” he teases, enjoying the way your hands curl into fists against your sides. “i think i’ll be an amazing husband! spoil my little wifey rotten.”

you feel heat pooling in your cheeks and seungcheol watches flames spawn inside your irises. you’re so stubborn; you don’t know how much he wants to snatch you up and carry you back to his dorm. he watches annoyance turn your neutral expression into the beginnings of a sneer and he desperately wants you to take the bait; show him why he’s content to chase you for as long as you decide to play hard to get.

you hate that there’s no one else around to witness seungcheol’s shenanigans, hate that in spite of your disdain for his obsession with dubbing you his wife, your body seems to like it. the realization only makes you scowl harder, furrowing your brows while seungcheol looks on, waiting for you to respond or leave. the raise of one thick eyebrow has you blowing out air in frustration, and then you set him straight.

“not even in your dreams, choi,” you grit, turning heel so you can’t stomp your way back to your own dorm and forget how stupidly attractive the asshole is angry he makes you.

he grins, letting you leave him in the hallway but not without having the last word, of course. that would be too much of a loss.

“especially in my dreams,” he says, loud enough to be sure that your retreating form can hear him. “til death do us part!”

you stop, refusing to turn around but obviously disgruntled. you can hear seungcheol snickering, and you take a deep breath before gathering your wits again. bastard, you think, forcing yourself to begin moving again. if choi seungcheol is delusional enough to believe you’d ever marry him, he’s absolutely right dumber than he looks.