-

Six months later, the underground felt like another lifetime. You hadn’t been back since the night Changbin walked away. It hadn’t been easy, letting go of the place where you’d first found your purpose after your friend died, where you’d sworn no one would die on your watch. But staying would’ve meant dragging his past into every moment of his future, and you refused to let him be chained to it through you. So you left it behind, just as he did. Now, your apartment felt lighter. The sharp smell of antiseptic had been replaced with coffee and candle wax, the only bandages on the counter the ones you occasionally needed for clumsy kitchen accidents.

And Changbin…Changbin was different. His body healed first. The bruises faded, the stiffness eased, the tension in his shoulders no longer permanent. He ate better, slept deeper. The restless way his fists used to clench slowly gave way to something else: tapping rhythms on the table, humming under his breath, scribbling words on scraps of paper. Then, his world opened wider. He applied for a music program at a local arts school, nervous as hell but determined, and got in. It became his new ring — not one of blood and fists, but of keys, chords, and notebooks. And there, he met two friends who pulled him in with open arms: Chan, patient and sharp-eyed, always ready to listen, and Jisung, all laughter and restless energy, dragging Changbin into late-night studio sessions until the three of them stumbled out into dawn.

You saw him come alive with them. His voice, once quiet, now lifted in shared melodies. His laugh, once rare, now came often, unguarded. He was still Changbin, still strong, still carrying shadows, but he was also something more. Something freer. And with that freedom came something else.

The way his gaze lingered on you longer than before, soft and searching. The way he brought back pastries after class because he thought you’d like them, or how his texts had shifted from quick updates to little jokes, casual words that warmed your chest late at night. You caught yourself, too, looking at him differently. Not just as the fighter you’d stitched together, not just the broken boy clawing his way out of a cage, but as a man who was building something new. And as someone you wanted to be part of that newness with.

One evening, you sat on the couch, papers in your lap, when he came in from class, hoodie tugged over his head, eyes bright. He dropped his bag with a thud, hair mussed, and grinned at you a little shyly. “Guess what?” he asked, breathless with excitement.

You raised a brow, smiling despite yourself. “What?”

“Chan says we’ve got a shot at performing one of our songs next month. At an actual showcase. People are going to hear it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. “Feels unreal.”

Your heart swelled. “That’s amazing, Bin. I’m proud of you.”

His gaze softened at that, lingering, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, warmer. Like the distance you’d both held carefully was quietly thinning. He looked away first, but not before you saw the faint flush rising in his cheeks.

-

The small auditorium buzzed with energy, every seat filled. Students and strangers alike crowded the rows, waiting for the next group to take the stage. You sat somewhere near the middle, program clutched in your hands, eyes darting down to the name you’d read a dozen times already. Seo Changbin.

You weren’t sure who was more nervous. Him, about to step into the spotlight, or you, sitting here with your chest tight and your heart threatening to jump out of your ribs.

The lights dimmed, and the next act was announced: “3RACHA.” The name pulled a smile from you. He hadn’t told you much, only that it was him, Chan, and Jisung; his closest friends from the program, the ones who had pushed him to believe his music was worth being heard.

Then, they walked out. Changbin looked different up there. The hoodie and cap were gone, replaced by something simple but sharp. Dark jeans, a black shirt, his hair styled back just enough to reveal the hard lines of his face. He carried himself taller, steadier. Still the fighter, but this time, he was fighting for something else.

The beat started, rolling low and heavy through the speakers, and then his voice cut through. Deep, rough-edged, and commanding. It was electric. The room leaned forward as he rapped, words spilling fast and sharp, each syllable landing with the precision of fists he no longer had to throw. Chan’s voice soared above, Jisung’s energy sparking between them, but it was Changbin who pulled your focus. He was alive in a way you’d never seen. Every movement, every breath carried a certainty that made your skin prickle.

And when his gaze swept over the crowd, for one brief second, it found you. It wasn’t long, just the flicker of a glance, but it hit hard. His eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth lifted — small, almost secret, but undeniably there.

By the time the song ended, the room was on its feet, cheers echoing off the walls. Changbin’s chest rose and fell with exertion, sweat glinting at his temples, but his grin was wide and unguarded. You clapped until your palms stung, pride swelling so big it hurt.

Later, when the crowd spilled into the lobby, you found him leaning against a wall, flushed and breathless, Chan and Jisung buzzing nearby. When he spotted you, his grin faltered into something softer, almost shy. “Well?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

You stepped closer, smile bright. “You were incredible.”

The tips of his ears flushed red. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, holding his gaze. “You looked like you belonged up there.” For a moment, the noise around you seemed to fade, leaving just him and you, and the warmth of what was quietly growing between.

The showcase buzz followed you both out into the night. The air was crisp, city lights reflecting off the river as students spilled onto the sidewalks, still chatting about the performances. Chan and Jisung disappeared into the crowd with promises to meet later, leaving you and Changbin walking side by side.

He was still glowing, adrenaline humming in the restless way his fingers tapped against his thigh, but his voice was quieter now. “Thanks for coming.”

You glanced at him, smiling. “You really think I’d miss it?”

He ducked his head, embarrassed, the tips of his ears pink under the streetlamps. “I don’t know. Guess part of me thought…maybe this doesn’t matter to anyone but me.”

You nudged his arm gently. “It matters. To me. You were incredible, Binnie. I’m not just saying that.” The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was warm, filled with the sound of your footsteps and the faint hum of the city.

By the time you reached the Han River, he stopped, hands tucked into his pockets. “I used to come here when I was a kid,” he admitted, staring at the water. “When everything at home got too much. I thought, maybe if I stared long enough, I’d see a way out.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “And now?”

He hesitated, his jaw working. “Now I think I see a way forward. For the first time.” Your heart clenched at that. You wanted to reach for his hand, but held back, afraid the moment was too fragile to risk breaking. He turned then, eyes locking with yours, and for a second, it felt like the world stilled. His lips parted, his breath catching, and you thought— maybe this is it. But instead, he looked away, swallowing hard. “We should get home, you have an early shift tomorrow.”

The walk back was quiet, but softer than before. When you reached your bedroom door, he lingered, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say more. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low. “Not just for tonight. For everything. If you hadn’t been there-” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know where I’d be.”

You smiled gently, heart tight. “You don’t owe me anything. Just keep fighting. That’s enough.”

His eyes lingered on you, warm and searching, before he finally nodded and stepped back. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you whispered.

-

Living together had started as a necessity. A safe place, a roof, a way to give him distance from the world he had fought in for too long. But months in, it felt natural. Almost inevitable. Mornings were quiet but warm. You’d wake to the smell of coffee and the soft thrum of low bass beats leaking from Changbin’s room. Sometimes you’d find him at the kitchen counter already, notebook open, hair a mess, humming half-formed lyrics as he scribbled them down between bites of toast.

“Morning,” he’d say, voice still rough with sleep, and push a mug toward you without looking up, because he’d already memorized how you liked it.

Nights carried a different rhythm. He’d stumble home late from the practice rooms with Chan and Jisung, tired but buzzing, and collapse onto the couch with his laptop open and headphones askew. You’d end up there too, reading or scrolling beside him, legs brushing in the shared space. Sometimes, he’d pull one side of his headphones off and offer it to you. “Want to hear?”

The first time, you’d blinked at him, surprised. But when you leaned in, pressing the foam against your ear, the music that filled you was raw and sharp — his voice layered with Chan’s and Jisung’s, a world they were building one note at a time. “It’s good,” you’d whispered.

He’d smiled faintly, that shy curve of his mouth that never failed to tighten something in your chest. “Not finished. But thanks.”

Small things piled up quietly. His hoodie draped over the back of your chair. The way he reached over you in the kitchen, grumbling about your knife skills before slicing vegetables with absurd precision. The way he always waited to walk home with you when your shifts ended late. The lines blurred without either of you naming it.

One night, rain pelted against the windows, steady and relentless. You curled up on the couch with a blanket, exhausted, when Changbin padded in from his room. He hesitated only a second before dropping down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “You look tired,” he murmured.

You laughed softly. “Says the one who’s been up since six and just came back from a ten-hour practice.”

He huffed, but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for the edge of the blanket and tugged it over his lap too, settling in with a sigh. For a while, you both just listened to the rain, the quiet between you heavier than words. Then, softly: “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this normal before.”

You turned your head, finding him gazing out the window, eyes reflecting the city lights. His tone wasn’t sad, just thoughtful, almost awed. “You deserve normal,” you said.

His lips curved, a ghost of a smile, and he finally looked at you. For a second, your breath caught at the warmth there, at the unspoken weight in the way he held your gaze. Then he shifted, tugging the blanket higher and muttering, “Don’t hog all of it,” like the moment hadn’t just brushed the edge of something more. But your heart knew better.

-

It started with something small. You had agreed to meet a coworker after your shift — nothing unusual, just dinner to catch up. But when you walked into the café that evening, Changbin was already there with Chan and Jisung, laptops spread across their table, cups of coffee long gone cold. He looked up at the sound of your voice, smiling before he could help himself. But then he noticed the man beside you. Tall, polished, laughing a little too easily as he held the door open for you. Something sharp twisted in Changbin’s chest.

You spotted him and waved, grin bright. “Bin! You’re here?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, voice stiff, fingers curling into fists under the table. “Working on some stuff.”

Your coworker glanced his way, brows raised. “Friend of yours?”

“Roommate,” you explained simply, your tone casual, too casual, before following the man to the counter.

Changbin tried to focus on the screen in front of him, on Chan muttering about mixing levels and Jisung bouncing lyrics off the page. But his eyes kept darting toward you, laughing softly at something your coworker said, brushing his arm without realizing it.

A heat built under his skin that had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with realization. He wanted that laugh aimed at him. He wanted to be the reason your eyes sparkled like that, the one leaning close, not some stranger in a pressed shirt who had no idea what you’d given up, what you’d fought for, what you meant.

It hit him then — hard and unrelenting. He’d spent months circling around the edges of it, brushing past moments that lingered too long, looks that said more than words. But watching you there, with someone else, stripped away every excuse. He cared. Too much. More than a rommate, more than a friend.

When you came over to their table later, takeaway cup in hand, your smile easy as always, Changbin forced himself to meet your eyes. But there was a weight in his chest he couldn’t shake. “Heading home?” you asked him lightly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, standing a little too quickly. “See you there.” He left before you could say more, his heart pounding in his ears. That night, he sat awake long after you’d gone to bed, staring at the ceiling. His ribs no longer hurt, his knuckles no longer bled, but the ache inside was deeper than any fight had ever left him. Because for the first time, he couldn’t lie to himself. He was in love with you.

-

It didn’t take long to notice the change. At first, it was subtle. He came home later from practice, retreating to his room more quickly than before. He stopped lingering in the kitchen with his headphones half-off, stopped sliding you bites of whatever new snack Jisung had shoved at him that day. He still smiled, still laughed when you teased him, but the warmth that once lived in those moments felt muted, tucked away. And it hurt.

You found him on the couch one night, laptop open but untouched, fingers drumming restlessly against the armrest. The TV was on, low volume, some variety show flickering across the screen, but his eyes weren’t on it. They were distant. “Binnie?” you asked softly, leaning against the doorway.

He glanced up, startled, then forced a quick smile. “Hey.”

You stepped closer, frowning. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’m just tired,” he said quickly, gaze dropping to the laptop again.

But you knew him too well by now. You crossed the room and sat beside him, folding your legs under you, your shoulder brushing his. “No, it’s more than that.”

His jaw tightened. He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Changbin.” You tilted your head, catching his eyes with yours. “Talk to me.”

The silence stretched, heavy, his fingers clenching into fists against his thighs. For a moment, you thought he might retreat again. But then he exhaled, long and shaky, and whispered: “I don’t know how to do this.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

His eyes finally lifted to yours, and the rawness there made your breath catch. “Be around you. Pretend like I don’t-” He broke off, teeth sinking into his lip. “…like I don’t feel more than I should.” Your heart stuttered. He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You’ve done so much for me. Saved me. Gave me a home. The last thing you need is me screwing it up by-”

“By what?” you asked, your voice low.

He swallowed, shoulders tense, words trembling on the edge of his lips. “…By wanting more than you ever asked for.”

The room fell quiet, the soft murmur of the TV filling the space he left behind. You could feel the weight of his confession pressing into the air between you, fragile and real. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the truth that had been weaving through every late-night walk, every shared blanket, every lingering glance. He wasn’t pulling away because he didn’t care. He was pulling away because he cared too much.

The words hung between you, raw and trembling, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Changbin’s shoulders were tight, his gaze locked on the floor as if he regretted letting it slip the second it left his mouth. His fingers dug into his knees, restless, braced for rejection.

You let the silence breathe. Then, slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing his. “Bin,” you said softly. His head snapped up, eyes wide. “You don’t have to pretend around me,” you continued, voice steady though your heart raced. “Not about how you feel. Not about anything. I never wanted you to carry that weight alone.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, something unsteady flickering in his expression. “You don’t… hate me for it?”

You shook your head gently, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “No. Not even close.” The tension in his frame eased just slightly, though he still looked uncertain, almost boyish in the way his eyes searched yours. “I can’t promise I have all the answers,” you admitted, thumb brushing lightly against his knuckles. “But I know I want you here. That hasn’t changed.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to decide whether he could believe it. Then his hand turned, palm brushing yours, a tentative pressure that felt more intimate than anything spoken.

-

After that night, something unspoken settled between you. Changbin didn’t retreat anymore. If anything, he seemed to drift closer — not in big, dramatic gestures, but in quiet, careful ways that added up. He lingered in the kitchen when you cooked, chopping vegetables at your side even if you hadn’t asked. He carried your groceries without being told, grumbling about the weight but never once letting you take the heavier bag. He started knocking on your door before bed, just to mumble a soft, “Goodnight,” like the words themselves anchored him.

And touch… touch became different. At first, it was small. His knee brushing yours when you sat on the couch. His hand steadying your elbow when you stepped off a curb. The way his palm would graze your back when he passed behind you, light enough to be excused as accident, deliberate enough that you knew it wasn’t.

Then came the night you fell asleep watching a movie together. You woke to find yourself slumped against his shoulder, blanket tangled around the both of you. For a split second, you started to pull away — but his arm shifted, tightening around you, holding you there without a word. His cheek rested against the top of your head, his breathing slow and steady. You stayed.

After that, it became normal. Sharing a blanket on the couch. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at the table, his notebook open between you as he asked for your opinion on a lyric. Sometimes, when you laughed, he’d lean closer than necessary, his eyes crinkling in a way that made your chest ache. It was never rushed. Never forced. Just two people finding comfort in closeness, like your bodies already knew what your hearts were still catching up to.

One rainy evening, you both ended up in the kitchen, him perched on the counter while you stirred a pot on the stove. He watched you quietly, legs swinging like a boy, until you finally looked up. “What?” you asked, amused.

His lips curved into that small, shy smile you’d grown to love. “Nothing. Just feels good. Being here like this.”

You turned back to the stove, but warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading until you couldn’t stop your own smile.

-

It was past midnight when the front door clicked shut. You stirred from the couch where you’d been dozing, blinking sleep from your eyes. Changbin stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped, hood pulled low. Not the usual late-night energy he carried back from practice sessions — tonight, he looked weighed down, like every step was too heavy. “Binnie?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away, just toed off his shoes and dropped his bag with a thud. His hoodie sagged with rain, damp at the edges. He ran a hand over his face, then finally muttered, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” You sat up, patting the cushion beside you. “Come here.” He hesitated, then sank down beside you, elbows braced on his knees. For a long moment, he said nothing, his breath uneven. “What happened?” you asked gently.

His laugh was short, bitter. “Everything. We had a review today — professors, other students, everyone in the room. And I…” He shook his head, fists clenching. “I choked. Couldn’t get the words out right, couldn’t hit the flow the way I practiced. Watched their faces drop like I wasn’t even worth listening to.”

“Changbin—”

“I’m not cut out for this.” His voice cracked, raw. “Maybe the ring’s all I’m good for. Just fighting until I can’t stand anymore. Because this—” He gestured vaguely, swallowing hard. “This feels like I’m reaching for something that’s not mine to have.”

Your heart twisted. Slowly, you reached over, laying your hand over his. He stiffened at first, then let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling under yours. “You’re wrong,” you said softly but firmly. “This is yours. The way you light up when you make music, the way you can lose yourself in it for hours — that’s real, Bin. One bad day doesn’t erase that.”

His shoulders hunched, and for the first time in months, he looked small again. “What if I’m just kidding myself?”

You leaned closer, pressing your voice low. “Then let me believe for you. Until you can again.”

His breath caught, and he finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. The silence between you stretched, charged, until you could feel the words he wasn’t saying balanced right there on the edge of his lips. Instead, he swallowed them back, whispering, “You always know what to say.”

You squeezed his hand, smiling faintly. “That’s because I know you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he was memorizing your face, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t yet. His thumb brushed against your skin, tender and hesitant.

-

It was a Saturday afternoon when he asked. You were sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a stack of paperwork, when Changbin walked in. He hovered by the doorway for a moment, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair mussed like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. His lips pressed together before he finally cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said.

You glanced up, smiling. “Hey yourself. You okay?”

Instead of answering, he moved closer, planting his palms against the table as if to anchor himself. His eyes met yours, steady but nervous. “I want to take you out.”

Your brows lifted. “Out?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like…properly. Dinner, maybe a walk. Not just grabbing street food after class or splitting leftovers at home. A real date.”

The word hung there, heavily. For a second, your breath caught. You studied him — the tension in his shoulders, the flush creeping up the curve of his ears, the way he was bracing himself for rejection. A smile tugged at your lips. “So, you finally admit it?”

His eyes widened. “Admit what?”

“That you want this to be more than late-night ramen and borrowed hoodies.” You tilted your head playfully. “You’re asking me on a date, Binnie. That’s not nothing.”

Color spread across his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. I am. Because I can’t keep pretending it’s just friendship. Not when every time I look at you, it feels like—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, frustrated. “Feels like everything I’ve been fighting for finally makes sense.”

Your chest tightened. Slowly, you set the papers aside and stood, closing the small distance between you. “Then I’d love to,” you said softly.

For a moment, relief and disbelief warred on his face. Then, slowly, a grin spread, shy and boyish, but so bright it nearly undid you.

That evening, he took you to a little restaurant tucked between side streets. Nothing fancy, but warm, with soft lights and dishes he admitted he’d saved up for. He was quieter than usual at first, fiddling with his chopsticks, until you reached across the table and brushed your hand against his. After that, it felt easy.

Dinner turned into a walk under the city lights, shoulders brushing, laughter spilling between you. And when you stopped by the riverbank, the same one where he’d once told you he had no hope of escaping, he turned to you, eyes reflecting the glow of the water. “This feels different now,” he whispered.

You smiled, heart pounding. “Because it is.” And when his hand found yours, warm and sure, you both knew there was no going back.

The city stretched quiet around you, the hum of traffic fading as you and Changbin lingered by the riverbank. Neon lights shimmered on the dark surface, broken into ripples that seemed to dance with the night breeze.

His hand was still in yours. Solid and warm. Every time his thumb brushed against your skin, your chest ached a little more. He hadn’t let go since dinner. For a while, you stood in silence, the comfort of it almost enough. But then he shifted, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “Can I tell you something?” His voice was low, rougher than usual, like the words were dragging themselves out of him.

You turned, nodding gently. “Of course.”

He exhaled, gaze fixed on the river, jaw working like he was bracing for a fight. “I’ve been trying to find the right time. Or the right way. But I don’t think there is one. Not really.”

“Binnie, there's no rush-”

“I’m in love with you.” The words spilled out, raw and unpolished, but heavy with truth. His shoulders tensed immediately, as though he was already regretting it, already expecting you to pull away. “I know I don’t deserve you,” he rushed on, voice shaking now. “I know my past is a mess and I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. But every time I look at you, every time you smile at me, it feels like-like I’m alive again. And I can’t pretend it’s just gratitude anymore. It’s more. It’s everything.”

Your breath caught, heart hammering. He finally looked at you then, eyes dark and terrified but burning with something deeper. You didn’t answer with words. Not at first. Instead, you reached up, cupping his face gently, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “I love you too,” you whispered.

For a moment, he froze, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his breath shuddered out of him, relief breaking over his face so raw it nearly brought tears to your eyes. “Yeah?” His voice cracked, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” you said firmly, smiling. “You don’t have to doubt that.”

Before either of you could second-guess it, he leaned in, closing the space between you.

The kiss wasn’t practiced or perfect. It was hesitant, trembling, his lips pressing against yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too tight. But it was also warm and aching for more.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven. “I don’t want to let go,” he murmured.

“Then don’t,” you whispered back.

And with the river at your side and the city lights shimmering above, you both knew: this was the start of something that had been waiting to bloom all along.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

PART ONE

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“Professor approval required to drop course.” You’ve got to be kidding me.

In your hurry to get out, get anywhere other than in front of the glaring eyes of the students in Art 111, you hadn’t even considered that this might happen. Your phone screen mocked you, displaying the error notification.

Walking out of his class had been impulsive but it had felt right. You had been determined to leave and never come back. This hangup, just a small amount of extra resistance, had you rethinking everything.

If you couldn’t take Art 111 off your schedule, there was no way you could add another class in its place. And, if you weren’t taking enough credits you wouldn’t qualify as a full-time student, one of the requirements of your trust. You ran the numbers in your head, trying to figure out if you could make ends meet. No matter how you cut it, it didn’t work.

If you weren’t full-time, you might as well pack your bags and head for home. Back to the town with nothing but dead memories and family you didn’t want to see.

Your options were clear; either convince Professor Wayne to let you drop the course or truck through the term with gritted teeth. You shivered in the cold night air, thinking of standing in front of the class, mind blank, trying to think of something to explain your terrible artwork. Nothing was worth that. You refused to be humiliated again.

Emailing him was the easiest option. You could explain that it wasn’t working out, that you had decided to focus on topics more in line with your major. But what were his criteria for dropping the course, anyway? What if he didn’t respond in time, before the two week cutoff for a tuition refund?

Either way, it was worth a try. You found his email address from the crumpled syllabus at the bottom of your bag, thought for a minute, then typed out a message:

Dear Prof. Wayne, I am writing to ask that you let me drop your Art 111 course. Thank you. Sincerely, y/n.

You paused, then added:

Also, I hate this school and I hate you.

You put down your phone with a sigh. It felt good to let out some of your frustration, like opening a shaken-up bottle of cola just enough to let a few bubbles slip out.

The weight of the long day was wearing you down. You closed your phone. It could wait until morning. You would take some Tylenol to cut through your migraine and sleep on it. The embarrassment was starting to fade. The evening chill cooled your emotions to a dim ember.

No. It has to be tonight.

The only way to make it stick, to stop you from flaking out, was to get it over with immediately. You would talk to him after the class ended, which would be in—you checked the time—almost an hour. You would convince him to let you drop the class, no matter what.

* * *

You alternated between sitting, endlessly tapping your feet, and pacing the hall outside Professor Wayne’s classroom. Your shoes echoed in the empty hallway. You felt a pang of relief when the door opened and students spilled out. It was almost over, if Professor Wayne would allow it.

Stepping into the room after the last student left, you saw him pulling apart a still life—a plaster bust, a bowl of styrofoam fruit, and a stack of books. He selected a few items and disappeared into a door at the back of the studio. Kanara was cleaning the chalkboard with a rag and spray bottle, she didn’t notice you walk in.

You warily approached the storage room, then dipped your head inside. The walls were lined with shelves, bins overflowing with art supplies and still life props. Professor Wayne pulled one bin down from a high perch and began placing styrofoam apples and pears into it.

As your eyes adjusted to the dim light of the storage room, you were surprised to see the space doubled as his office. A sturdy cedar desk and two chairs—his jacket loosely tossed over the back of one—had been crammed into the corner of the room at odd angles.

Your heart pounding, you knocked on the open door.

“Come in,” he said without looking as he lifted the bin back up to the high shelf. His dress shirt pulled loose from where it was tucked as he stretched. You averted your gaze and clutched your portfolio bag. You stepped inside. The room was several degrees warmer than the stone hallways and lofty classroom.

“I was hoping to talk,” you told the floor. “About earlier.”

As he bent after putting the bin away, he winced and rotated his shoulder in its socket. Wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead, he turned to greet you. The look of concern with a hint of desperation from earlier was gone, replaced with something else. Frustration? Disappointment? You couldn’t tell, his blue eyes giving away no secrets.

“Let’s chat,” he said, and gestured towards his desk.

As you approached, you saw your drawing of the university library, carefully laid over stacks of books and papers. You traced the frayed edge absentmindedly where it had been torn from the pad. Small holes dotted the corners where you had pinned it to the wall for critique.

“You saved it?”

Professor Wayne stepped behind you and looked at the drawing over your shoulder. “Thought you might come looking for it.”

Now that they had been pointed out, the problems with your sketch were painfully obvious. “That’s not...I don’t want it. It’s not very good.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry you feel so poorly about it. Have you reconsidered staying in the course?” He plucked his jacket off the back of the chair and squeezed behind the desk to sit in the other chair. He gestured at the open seat. “Please.”

You continued to stand, diving into your request instead. You braced yourself for him to argue with you, convince you to muscle through the term. “I’m still dropping the class. I need your approval to take it off my schedule.”

“Ah.” Professor Wayne leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

You opened your mouth to continue fighting your case, explain why you needed to get the hell away from Art 111. “It’s just not working out, I thought I might like it but it’s not the kind of thing I’m good at. I’d rather do something more useful for my major.”

“Alright.” He pulled a laptop from a desk drawer and flipped it open. Your list of complaints was on the tip of your tongue about to take flight when what he had said reached your brain.

“What?”

“What’s your last name? I’ll take you off the list.” He held his fingers over the keyboard. “If that’s what you would prefer.”

With his shirt sleeves were rolled up almost to the elbow and his jacket off, he looked younger. You felt more like you were talking to a peer than a professor.

You hesitated. “Really?”

The corner of his lips turned up. “Contrary to the events of this afternoon, I’m not typically someone who chases students down hallways. If you’re unhappy with the class I’ll remove you from enrollment. I should say, though, that Clayton will be more constructive with his feedback in the future.”

You were stunned. What’s the catch? The argument you expected hadn’t materialized, but it didn’t feel completely averted either. It was just around the corner waiting to strike.

“I know this class is challenging,” he said. “But it’s also rewarding. It isn’t for everyone. If you want to drop the class I won’t get in your way.”

Ah, there it is. “You don’t think I’m good enough, then, is that it?”

Professor Wayne let out a quick noise that you swore was a stifled scoff. He closed his laptop and rubbed his temples. “That’s not what I said.”

The embers inside you flamed up into defensiveness. “You’re saying this isn’t up to snuff,” you said, poking your finger at your drawing. “And I should just get out of your way and let you teach the rest of the real students like Clayton and Poppy? That’s what you mean, right?”

That struck a nerve. An overtone of frustration crept into Professor Wayne’s voice. “Don’t talk about your work like that.”

“Why not? It’s trash. And you didn’t answer me.”

“It’s not ‘trash.’”

“I worked on it for an hour and it still looks fucking ugly.”

He stood up and walked around the desk, joining you to look at the drawing head on. He stood, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “Okay, well, what about it do you think is ugly?”

“Everything. Look at this.” You pointed to the lines making up the main tower of the library. Your hand had been unsteady after your uncle’s phone call, and the lines before then weren’t particularly straight either. You felt your voice warble with more emotion than you intended, your throat burning. “It’s all fucking wrong.” Your eyes watered and you spat the curse out at him.

Professor Wayne considered the drawing. “I like it.”

“Yeah, sure. Ha ha.” You wiped your eyes and flicked the tears away, a few landing on the page and making the ink bleed. God, you were being such a crybaby.

He relaxed a little in response to your emotions, speaking more softly. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I mean it. You did good work.”

Something in the way he said it gave you pause. His persistence was annoying you but he wasn’t lying, not quite. He really meant it, or he thought he did.

You turned to him. The wetness in your eyes brought a soft haze to the world and doubled the image of his blue irises. “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you like it?”

* * *

When he became a professor, Bruce decided he would teach with one guiding principle: unconditional positivity. “There’s no such thing as a ‘bad’ drawing.” “Treat each student as if they were doing their best.” “Always have something supportive to say.”

You were currently testing his resolve.

Receiving critiques in a healthy, detached way was a basic skill that he expected everyone to learn. We’re critiquing the art, not the artist.

It could be hard at first, he understood that. When the tutor his parents hired when he was eight crumpled his crude drawing of a square house with triangle roof and said that that was how children drew, we will do better than that, he had thrown a fit. Within a month, though, he had been using rough two-point perspective to sketch out Wayne Tower. The growing pains eased eventually.

Clayton’s critique had been harsh but nothing Bruce hadn’t heard dozens of times before. The drawing had problems, definite errors in perspective and line control. Pointing them out was part of the learning process.

Over time he came to view his tutor’s severity as unnecessary, for the most part. He probably could have learned without causing emotional outbursts. Still, some level of grit was necessary to improve.

Truthfully, Bruce had been elsewhere for most of the conversation. Administration was breathing down his neck, furious over the heat they were getting from his extracurricular activities. One in particular weighed heavily on his mind.

He found himself repeating placations, lost in thought. I like it, it’s not trash, I like it quite a lot.

“What do you like about it?” you repeated, waiting for him to reply.

The drawing was a solid attempt at the assignment and showcased the student’s weaknesses, which helped identify areas for further growth. That’s what the rubric might say. But did he like it? He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like he ‘liked’ anything.

He struggled to come up with a response and fell back on a line one of his professors had told him. “Art isn’t inherently good or bad,” he monotoned. “It simply exists as a reflection of its creator.“

You stared at him in disbelief.

“I don’t buy it.”

Bruce didn’t respond.

“There’s no way you actually think that. There’s no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ art? What does that even mean?”

The idea had made sense to Bruce at one time, but whatever logic was there had become abstracted and intangible. He couldn’t even begin to explain what he meant. He took a deep breath and picked up your drawing, holding it up in front of you, covering his face.

“Never mind. Think of it this way. This drawing, obviously you’re not happy with it. I get that. But it isn’t you. This is just what you were able to do with the time, focus, and energy you had. And you made something interesting, which is more than some of your classmates can say.”

He lowered his arms so the paper revealed your face. From the redness on your sclera he could tell you were stubbornly holding more tears at bay. “Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks. The critiques can be hard, don’t take them personally. People want to show off, end up coming off badly.”

He held the drawing out. You snatched it out of his fingers and started folding it up, almost crumpling it.

This emotional pain, had the critique caused it or only released it? He wasn’t sure. If there was something else going on underneath, some other reason you wanted out of his class so badly, why wouldn’t you just say it?

* * *

Professor Wayne stood awkwardly as you folded the paper and stuffed it in your portfolio bag. His arms hung at his side like he didn’t know what to do with them. He opened his mouth then shut it again, then began unrolling his sleeves down his forearms and re-buttoning them despite the warmness of the room.

“So,” he finally said. “How are things going, uh, outside class?”

You snorted. “Do you really want to know?”

“Sure.” Not exactly a yes, please.

“Do you want to hear about the dead dad or all the other shit going on?”

He hesitated, his features softening. You braced yourself for the inevitable, perfunctory “I’m sorry” that came when people found out.

Instead, what he said was “were you close?”

You considered, then nodded. “For the most part.”

“Well then, I’m sorry for your loss. Losing a parent is…never easy.”

You didn’t immediately respond, letting silence fill the space. He let you take your time. His eyes never left yours, the deep shadows cast by his brows only made his blue irises shine more intensely.

You chewed on your lip, trying to ignore the sweat building up on the back of your neck. The room was already warm and had been progressively more stuffy with the heat of two people. You felt compelled to spill your guts, tell him about your dad, about how little you wanted to be at school, about how far you felt from home but there was no home to go back to.

The storage room door let out two loud taps that made you start and Kanara entered carrying a box of supplies.

“I’m heading out for the evening Professor, do you need anything else before I go?” As she looked up from around the box she noticed you. “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?”

You opened your mouth but Professor Wayne spoke first.

“No, not at all. I can put those away, thank you.”

Kanara set the box on the ground, nodded to both of you, and left.

Professor Wayne exhaled slowly through pursed lips. “Do you still want to drop the class?” he asked.

Your head spun and your cheeks felt feverish. Kanara hadn’t interrupted anything, really, but you felt resentment that she had broken the odd tension in the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, sleep on it. Email me in the morning if you do. I’d love to have you but I understand.” He looked over at his desk which appeared to jog his memory about something. “If you want a fresh start with a new group, there’s a few seats in 131, figure drawing. Let me know.”

“Okay.” You couldn’t bring yourself to thank him even though you knew it was warranted. You were vaguely aware that he was going above and beyond for you, but your head was fuzzy, like you were two hours deep into karaoke night at Mora’s.

He unfolded his arms and for a strange moment you thought he was going to reach out and hug you. You lurched forward slightly, then when his hands went into his pockets you tilted back again, doing an odd, apprehensive back and forth. Oh my god, what the fuck am I doing? You hoped to god he hadn’t noticed.

You managed to get out “I’ll email. Thanks,” and headed for the door, portfolio bag in tow, scrambling to get your phone out of your pocket, hoping to call Titus for a distraction from how awkward you felt.

Professor Wayne’s voice caught you halfway to safety.

“Y/n,” he said. You cautiously turned around partially, enough to see him twisting back into his jacket. “If you ever want to talk, I’ll be here. Even if you do drop the course.”

You paused. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As you turned back around and left, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. The flyer the protestor outside the Gotham City Museum had shoved onto you fell out in an orange crumple. You had forgotten about it until now. You bent down, snatched it up, and tossed it into the trash can near the classroom door.

* * *

As Bruce was leaving for the night, about to turn off the final lights in the classroom, he glanced down and a saw colorful splash among the pencil shavings and coffee cups. That color…

He had seen them around downtown in increasing numbers, even some around campus. Protestors, handing out leaflets printed on pumpkin orange paper. He reached out and plucked the paper ball. So far, his classroom had been a sanctuary away from this mess. That was coming to an end, it seemed.

He smoothed out the paper and began to read, his chest constricting again, the now-familiar anxiety returning.

“Gotham City Museum is spreading LIES about the history of city institution ARKHAM ASYLUM, which has kept us safe from the criminally insane for over…”

You had the large sofa set up with a few fluffy blankets and pillows, streaming service pulled up on the big TV when Minho emerged from his room. You were still wrapped up in the group chat when he silently leaned over the back of the grey couch, head next to yours, smiling mischievously before asking lowly in your ear, "so, which ghibli movie are we watching?", making you jump in surprise with a screech as he laughed at your reaction.

"JESUS, TWINKLETOES. WEAR A BELL OR SOMETHING!" you exclaimed, hand over your chest.

A playful chuckle escaped his lips as he plopped onto the cozy sofa beside you.

A sly grin spread across his face as he mused aloud, "yeah you'd like that, huh? a nice collar with a little bell fastened around my neck?" he winked.

You rolled your eyes "I'm gonna hose you down". you said, looking him up and down in an attempt to be threatening, but the more you thought about it, it did sound.. no. You shook off the thought, looking back at the TV.

Minho laughed and raised an eyebrow, his sharp features still amused as he asked again, "You gonna answer or what? Which movie are we doing?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes once again, this time with a subtle smile on your face. You leaned back into the cushions "I don't know, I was gonna let you choose", you responded, scrolling through the list of Ghibli movies on the screen.

"Oh, well then obviously The Cat Returns." he replied immediately. You perked up "Sweet, I love that one! Popcorn?". Minho nodded "obviously. I'll make drinks if you make the popcorn?" he asked. "deal." you said, standing up and heading towards the kitchen.

Your bare feet were chilly on the cold tiles as you walked into the large spacious kitchen. White marble countertops sat in contrast to the many black cabinets and their handles with gold detailing.

You opened the pantry and grabbed a bag of popcorn, then popped it into the microwave before turning around and hopping up to sit on the counter to watch Minho make the drinks. The marble countertop was cold on your pajama short clad legs as you kicked your dangling feet, feeling excited for movie night. "you want drinks or do you want drinks?" he asked, pausing what he was doing. "Hmm, drinks" you answered. He spun around, opening the glass liquor cabinet with a flourish "pick your poison, princess." he gestured at the dozens of bottles and raised his arms to emphasize the amount, making his shirt ride up and expose a line of soft skin above his sweatpants. You forcibly drag your eyes away to look at the extensive alcohol collection.

"do we have limoncello?"

"duh" Minho responded, grabbing the bright yellow liqueur. "what do you want it in?"

"sprite. add a bit of maraschino cherry juice?"

"you got it, princess." He meticulously prepared the drinks in tall, clear glasses, crafting a similar beverage for himself out of convenience, though likely not out of desire for the taste. The popcorn in the microwave emitted a high-pitched beep, prompting you to stand up and carefully remove it before pouring its contents into a glass bowl.

"ready?" you asked

he nodded "yeah. don't trip and spill the popcorn this time though." he chuckled.

"that was once!"

Minho looked at you pointedly, head cocked to the side.

"okay, twice. shut up." you grumbled quickly.

A grin spread across his face as he trailed behind you, heading back towards the plush couch.

As you prepared to enjoy the film, Minho placed the icy beverages within easy reach, arranging them neatly beside the heap of fluffy popcorn on the polished wooden coffee table. You cozied up into Minho as he sat down, the promise of cuddles being fulfilled.

You and Minho had been close friends since college, though it wasn't always that way. The first time you met him, freshman year, he was so unimpressed by your existence that you could barely get more than one word at a time out of him. He seemed disinterested in getting to know you better, and his curt responses made you feel like an inconvenience more than anything.

||flashback||

You were running late again. Of course you were, what was new? You sighed dramatically as you walked to your class, not even bothering to rush yourself at this point. Taking a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, you attempted to calm yourself. You knew you were starting a project today and the professor probably had already assigned you a partner since you were late. Most likely whichever poor soul it was that didn't get chosen by another classmate.

You entered the lecture hall, coffee in hand, sitting in your usual seat. You had just rested your forehead on the cool surface of the table when you felt a tap on your shoulder. Looking up with a pout you made eye contact with probably the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

"y/n, right? I'm your partner for the project." he said, his tone mildly annoyed.

"That's me. Sorry I'm late, I uh, overslept." you said with a nervous laugh and a warm smile.

"Don't care. You know what the project is even about?" he asked condescendingly, glower on his face.

Your smile dropped as you scoffed. The attitude on this guy. "Of course I do, why wouldn't I? It's been talked about for weeks." you responded, matching his tone.

"Well, you missed the opening lecture today because you were late, I don't know if that's a consistent problem for you or not." he rolled his eyes.

You narrowed your eyes at him. It definitely was a consistent problem, but he didn't need to know that. "Whatever. Let's just get started."

Throughout the next few weeks, you and Minho collaborated on the project, constantly disagreeing over every minor detail. It wasn't until your mutual friends, Chan and Changbin, intervened that you began to tolerate each other.

"You two are so similar it hurts." Changbin said as he watched you and Minho bicker over something as simple as which font to use.

"Don't compare me to him!" You said in offense.

"We may not see eye-to-eye on anything else, but our shared disdain for each other is undeniable." Minho said, arms crossed over his chest.

"what, you got a word of the day calendar or something? or are you just trying to meet your word count for the day." you spat out with disdain.

"Please, you're both getting on my nerves. Sit down and work on your project before I lecture you in the middle of this library." Chan huffed, frustration clear in his voice as he tried to work on his own homework.

"Yes, dad." Minho uttered sarcastically. "Wouldn't want to get myself grounded from the Nintendo for a week."

Your attempt to suppress your giggle failed as you laughed at his witty remark. You brought your hand up to conceal the wide grin spreading across your face while Minho observed your reaction intently, furrowing his brows with a tilt of his head.

"What?" You ask defensively.

"Nothing. Just never seen you laugh. The smile looks better than the scowl you're usually wearing"

You turn your head back to your laptop in an attempt to hide how flustered his comment made you. "Be funnier then." you mumbled.

He rolled his eyes, huffing out a small laugh of his own as he sat back down in the seat beside you. "I'll keep that in mind." he noted with a hint of sarcasm. Chan and Changbin shared a knowing look, smirks on their faces.

From then on, your interactions with Minho took on a playful edge. The back-and-forth banter and witty remarks became a Hallmark of your relationship, bringing you closer together.

As you continued to hang out frequently, Chan and Bin were always part of the crew. On occasion, Chan's cousin Felix would tag along, and before long he began inviting his own friends to join in on the fun as well. Your close-knit clique soon swelled up to an impressive total of nine members, marking the start of countless memorable adventures that are still talked about today.

The decision to drop out was made collectively about two years later by you and your friends due to an unfortunate event involving a harmful rumor that nearly jeopardized everything between your circle of friends. It simply didn't feel worth the trouble anymore. The frequent arguments you had with outsiders, the dirty looks, and the hushed whispers as you passed by made you feel culpable. The gossip topic made it feel like your fault. It affected you the most but the boys were treated horribly as well. You all began skipping classes, which honestly only fueled the rumors, but none of you could handle the treatment anymore so you all decided to drop out, Felix offering one of his families many large houses as refuge. You've all been together since.

||present day||

You were midway through the movie, thoroughly engrossed in the plot, while laying on the couch wrapped up in a warm and cozy blanket. Minho was spooning you from behind, his arm draped over your waist as he too followed along with the storyline of the film. When you spoke, it was in a soft voice laced with reminiscence "you know, I used to have a crush on The Baron." Your words came out with lighthearted laughter. Minho lifted his head to look down at you, his dark eyes meeting yours. He raised an eyebrow and smirked, saying everything he needed to without uttering a word. "what?! he's charming!!" you said in defense against his incredulous expression. Minho just huffed out a small laugh and shook his head before laying it back down on the pillow. "furry" he accused. You elbowed him lightly in the stomach "you're the worst" you said with an exaggerated pout "you like it" he responded.

You gradually fell asleep before the movie ended, rolling over to snuggle into Minho's warm chest, his soft black shirt pressed against your forehead. He gazed down at you with a gentle smile, brushing away any strands of hair from your face. The word "cute" escaped his lips in a soft whisper as he gazed at the sleeping form beside him. The warmth and comfort of the moment washed over him, and he too succumbed to the call of sleep. But their rest was short-lived, as exaggerated retching sounds mixed with the persistent vibration of their phones shattered the tranquility. Rolling onto your back, you groaned, annoyed at the interruption. Minho grabbed his phone, checking the group chat. "god, they're being annoying" he grumbled, voice laced with sleep. "when are they not?" you asked, snatching your phone up to check the chat as well.

Back in your room, you collapsed onto your comfortable queen-sized bed, which was adorned with a variety of plush blankets and pillows in different shapes and sizes. The color changing LED lights provided a soothing pink glow in the dimly lit room. As you re-read the group chat, you couldn't help but smile at the picture Felix sent before saving it to your phone. You then locked it and placed it on your bedside table. The comforting weight of your many blankets soon lulled you back into a peaceful sleep.

You had only been asleep for a mere two hours when your phone rang, waking you up once more. The sudden noise jolted you out of your slumber and left you feeling groggy and disoriented.

"hello?" you answered, voice rough from sleep.

"hey.. need you over here." a man's voice came through.

You glanced at the time on your phone, rubbing your tired eyes while trying to focus on the bright screen. "now?"

With a tantalizing tone, he uttered the words, drawing out each syllable "Yes now. I'll pay extra."

You let out a deep sigh, standing up and quickly getting dressed in decent clothes. "alright. come pick me up. I've been drinking, I can't drive."

"Already here." the man hung up without another word.

After storing your phone in the pocket of your torn jeans for safekeeping, you pulled on your plush jacket to go along with your simple yet comfortable tank top. Not wanting to waste any time choosing footwear, you opted for the first pair within reach - sleek black ankle boots featuring sturdy block heels. As you passed by the living room, Felix was still awake. You noticed that he was engrossed in a video game on the big screen TV. His fingers moved swiftly across the controller while his eyes remained fixed on the action unfolding before him. Despite being deeply immersed in the gameplay, when you went walking by, he immediately stopped what he was doing and looked back at you.

"Hey, bubs, where are you going? It's already 2 a.m." he asked, confusion and a hint of concern in his voice.

"just a work emergency!" you said simply as you ran your hands through your bed head, attempting to tame the unruly strands.

"this late?"

"yeah, I'll be back soon."

"I- okay. be safe, y/n."

You nodded. "of course, always."

You walked out the door and hopped into the luxurious black car with tinted windows that was already waiting for you. When Minho heard the sound of an engine, he got up to take a look outside his window and watched as you stepped into the sleek vehicle. He couldn't help the concern he felt as he watched it pull out of the long driveway and disappear down the street.

You were back home a mere two hours later, trudging through the door and heading straight to your room, ignoring Felix's lingering stare. You kicked off your shoes and removed your coat and pants before crawling back into bed and immediately passing back out. Tomorrow morning was gonna suck.

part 1.5 || part two || part three || part four

notes: and there's the first chapter of my first ever series! 😬 I hope you liked it!! I know we're starting off slow but I promise it'll pick up! please feel free to leave feedback and interactions so I can feel out what you guys like for part two! ily!! 🩷

This wasn’t good. This was a nightmare. Wonwoo was standing right in front of you, his hair damp probably from a shower he hadn’t taken that long ago, his eyes showing clear signs of hurt, of confusion, specs on his nose as always.

“Is- is this a bad time?” He somehow pressed out and you watched how his gaze wandered to the figure behind you. Soonyoung was still standing in the hallway, arms up above his head – the only thing on his body his boxers.

“Why didn’t you text me?” You quickly asked, getting Wonwoo’s attention back on you. Something told you to just close the door and talk with him outside, but your feet were glued to the floor. Wonwoo looked so hurt, so vulnerable and you wanted to punch yourself in the face. Why did he have to show up now? Why did he have to show up and see this?

“I don’t know I-,” he broke off, clearing his throat, “I guess I should have.” The way his eyes sparkled now, not in the way you were used to, the curious, the sweet way, your heart broke a little. Instead of saying anything else, he turned around and walked away heading straight to the elevator. You cursed under your breath, hand pulling through your hair and before you knew it you were already going after him.

Your hand found his wrist and you stopped him from getting into the elevator, your heart beating in your ears.

“Wait, Wonwoo, I can- I don’t-,”

“No, you don’t have to explain yourself,” Wonwoo interrupted you as he turned around. And even though his words were true, you felt like neither of you actually believed them. Pressing your lips together, you watched how every wheel turned behind his head trying to figure out what to say, what to do.

“Just… just tell me one thing,” he finally breathed out, his eyes catching yours, “did you feel it too? The connection between us?” Shit. He was scanning your face, desperately looking for a sign that you did feel it, that he wasn’t imagining things. And you? You were dumbfounded and unsure. Because what exactly was the right thing to say? If you told him the truth you would have to tell him that you did in fact, feel it too but that it didn’t matter because you weren’t interested in something serious. If you lied and told him no, you would break his heart even more than you already had.

“Does it matter?” You then somehow stumbled out and Wonwoo’s face fell even more. Of course it mattered. How could you even ask such a question? How could you just stand here in front of him and not acknowledge what was going on between you?

“It matters to me,” he replied now, eyes cold as they stared into yours. You pressed your lips together, brain working at ten million miles an hour.

“I- yes. Yes, Wonwoo, I did feel it too. But I- I’m not in a place where I want to commit to anything, I don’t… I don’t want that and I’m sorry.”

There you said it. The hard truth that now made Wonwoo’s shoulders sink, and his jaw tighten. Immediately, you felt like shit. Like trash. Utter garbage. Before he could say anything, you brought your other hand to his arm, looking at him with your eyes widened.

“You deserve better than me, Wonwoo. You deserve someone who is able to be what you need and want. Right now, I can’t be that person. I’m not ready to commit and-,”

“And so you sleep with every single guy you see? You think I don’t know about Mingyu? Jun? Minghao? God, you even fucked Joshua. And that library part-timer? Something tells me you went back and fucked him, too.”

Ouch. You let go off his arm and wrist, your cheeks red from rage and shame, shame you shouldn’t even be feeling because who was Wonwoo to say that? Did he really just slut-shame you? Say all this to your face as if he had any right to judge you? You were shaking, your hands in fists now.

“Yes, Wonwoo. Exactly that.” Your eyes were shooting daggers at him as you said those words. Then, without anything else, you turned around and walked back to your apartment. And as he watched you, Wonwoo already knew that his anger and hurt were no excuse for the way he had just talked to you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling a hand over his face, before turning to face the elevator again, leaning his forehead against the cold metal. He had really fucked up.

Soonyoung sat there in silence. His fingers were folded, his eyes narrowed as he looked at you.

“So,” he began then, tilting his head only slightly, “let me get this straight. You and Jiwoo made a bet at the beginning of the semester and-,”

“It’s more like a challenge, not a bet.”

“A challenge at the beginning of the semester and this Wonwoo guy kind of fell for you and you kind of feel the same way, but you are so determined to win that instead of being with him you continue sleeping with random guys, including me?”

You cleared your throat.

“Well, it’s not like I want to be with him. I just, well, he is cute. And nice. And he does make me laugh and yeah, maybe I did feel something for him, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want a relationship, sure maybe this challenge is a bit over the top, but common. It’s not like I am forcing anyone to have sex with me.”

You looked at Soonyoung and he looked at you. He was blinking slowly, before leaning back and crossing his legs. To be honest, you didn’t even know why you had decided to tell him, but it felt good to talk to someone about it who wasn’t Jiwoo. When you had come back inside, he had asked you what had happened and with your anger still so present you began to tell him everything. How you and Jiwoo had come up with the bet- uh, the challenge, and how you had slept with Joshua first and how somehow your second target was already about to change your life and make everything complicated and how you slept with him again and then sucked him off and- yeah, just all of it. And now, Wonwoo had said these horrible things to you and while you wanted to be mad and angry (you were mad and angry) you also kind of understood where he was coming from.

“He shouldn’t have held it against you. You sleeping with different guys, that’s a no go. Sure, he can be hurt that you don’t want to be with him despite the obvious feelings you have for each other, but that does not give him the right to straight up slut-shame you,” Soonyoung pulled a hand through his hair and shook his head, making you smile just a little.

“Thank you for saying that. And sorry that I, uh, made you part of this challenge.”

“Are you joking?” Soonyoung laughed and looked over at you again, “this was by far the best sex I’ve ever had, don’t you ever apologize for it, Y/N.”

Now, your small smile grew bigger.

“Well, I’m happy to hear that,” you said, pulling your legs up onto the armchair. He was sitting on the sofa across from you, exactly that sofa he had fucked you on just the night before and you bit your lip thinking about it. Soonyoung probably thought the same thing, his lips turning into a grin as he leaned forward, forearms on his thighs.

“You wanna go again?” He smirked and you let your tongue slowly lick over your bottom lip as you thought about it. Perhaps this was the right thing to get your mind off of Wonwoo. But then your eyes wandered to your phone that vibrated just then, showing you the time.

“Fuck,” you groaned, “I can’t. Really would love to, but I can’t. I promised Jiwoo to help her set things up for her brother’s welcome back party.”

Soonyoung was obviously disappointed, but nodded, leaning back again.

“Jeez, how long has he been in Singapore now? A couple of years at least, right?”

You nodded as you stood up, thinking about whether you wanted to take a shower… and decided for it. After last night you had only quickly gone to pee and clean yourself up just as much as you had energy for, so a shower sounded about right at this point.

“He was over there for six years, I haven't seen him in ages. I’ll go take a shower… care to join me?” The idea popped into your head and Soonyoung stood up quicker than a child when it heard it was going to Disneyland.

“You can bet your sweet ass I care,” his grin was wide, and you laughed as you took his hand, leading him to the bathroom.

A couple hours later, the family brunch/welcome back party preparations were almost done, Jiwoo setting up the last big vase of flowers as you stood next to her, hands on your hips. You knew Jiwoo’s family was well off and that sending their oldest son to Singapore for university just showed for that, but it somehow never really reached your brain how well off she was. You were in a very fancy restaurant which you knew you couldn’t afford on your best day, and it was rented out just for the party. Jiwoo loved her brother, and you knew she would have probably rented the whole of Everland for him if she could – but this would do too. Seungcheol was a few years older than you which led to you only having seen him a handful of times during your friendship with Jiwoo. From what you remembered, you had thought he was cute, but nothing more nothing less, no conversation between the two of you had ever happened and you were only here now to help Jiwoo. You were pretty sure he wouldn’t care about whether you were attending his little party or not, but Jiwoo insisted. If their parents could invite all their friends, why wasn’t she allowed to bring her own? Jiwoo’s parents didn’t necessarily dislike you, but they also never treated you like family or anything of the sort. You were just… Jiwoo’s slightly (very much) poorer best friend from High School.

Now, you watched how Jiwoo happily looked at the bouquet of pretty blue and yellow flowers, the guests slowly arriving.

“You know, sometimes I forget how rich you are,” you said, a grin spreading on your lips and Jiwoo rolled her eyes as she crossed her arms.

“That’s because I don’t like using my parent’s money,” she explained, and you clicked your tongue.

“Could never be me,” you sighed, making her shove you slightly with her elbow. You laughed and looked over to the door, where your stomach did a front flip. Oh. Oh!

“Jiwoo!” you breathed out, your eyes widening as you saw who had just walked in. Way earlier than he should have. Way hotter… than he should have. Jiwoo yelped in surprise, starting to run towards her brother.

“Seungcheol oppa!” She cried out, her arms flying around his neck as he caught her, his eyes wide in surprise.

“Jiwoo-yah, what- what is all this?”

Now, what followed was Jiwoo being somewhat mad Seungcheol had already arrived when he wasn’t supposed to be here for another 30 minutes, him laughing and hugging her tightly again before walking to his parents who seemed delighted to see him and you watching him the whole time. Like a hawk. From the pictures you had seen from him, you would have never guessed that he was this… broad. He had an incredibly handsome face structure, almost as if it was carved by the Greek gods themselves, his hair long and falling into his face in soft brown waves, big round eyes, a well fitted suit on his muscular body. Shit. You couldn’t possibly do what you were thinking of doing right now. But ever since this challenge had started, you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at attractive men a certain way. You pressed your lips together and finally averted your gaze, trying to let the heat inside you die down.

He's Jiwoo’s brother, she would never ever in a million years be cool with you fucking her brother, she would probably kill you, he is that precious to her and- oh my god, they are coming my way, shit!

Jiwoo was leading Seungcheol to you, his eyes meeting yours and you felt your whole body stiffen. Why were you like this?

“Oppa, you remember Y/N, right?” Jiwoo beamed at him, and you quickly shook off your thoughts and instead smiled at him.

“Ah yes, nice to see you again, Y/N,” Seungcheol smiled back at you, and you nodded trying your very best not to seem phased.

“You too, Seungcheol oppa.”

The brunch was a torture. The food was good, the company was boring, Jiwoo was mainly with Seungcheol, and you were left alone at your table, eating said good food and drinking a few more mimosas than you probably should have – but the champagne they used was so delicious and you were pretty sure you would never get to taste that sweet, sweet taste of liquid money again. Thankfully you didn’t get drunk that easily with your stomach that filled, but in the end all that wasn’t the reason for all of this being torture. No, it was all Seungcheol. The way he carried himself, the confidence, the nature of his speech, the perfect pitch of his voice like honey in your ears, the watch around his wrist sparkling in the sun shining through the tall windows, his hands looking so big around the glass of champagne, making you wonder what they would look around your-

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jiwoo suddenly sat back down next to you, her eyes thankfully on her phone instead of on her brother – who you were still staring at.

“I- uh, nothing, just, you know, enjoying the extremely delicious mimosas they’re serving here.” Oh, how much you hoped she wouldn’t ask anything else.

“You’re right they are so good. By the way, how did last night with Soonyoung go?” You breathed out, relieved she hadn’t caught on. You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed in front of your chest as you let one hand rotate your glass, wetting your lips.

“Very good. Like, very good. Must’ve been in the top 5 of the best sex I’ve ever had, hands down.” Jiwoo let out an approving whistle, putting her phone down and looking at you with a grin.

“Love to hear that. I’ll text him tonight and ask him if he’s free sometime this week,” she wiggled her eyebrows, making you laugh. Shaking your head, you grinned and let your eyes roam the room again – only to find Seungcheol looking right at you. First, you thought he was looking at Jiwoo, but the goosebumps on your whole body told you to rethink that again. You almost choked on your spit, your heart speed rapidly increasing as you wondered what the hell you were supposed to do. You felt as if your body was suddenly on fire, and you wondered if he knew what an effect he had on you. And as if he could read your mind, one corner of his mouth twitched, an incredibly sexy half smirk on his perfect plump lips now that made everything inside you scream at you to get up and drag him to an empty bathroom. You didn’t though. You didn’t get up, you didn’t drag him anywhere. Instead, you cleared your throat and looked back at Jiwoo, trying your very best to act like nothing was going on.

-

You decided to leave the brunch around two hours later, happy to notice Seungcheol not being anywhere near you, so you didn’t have to say goodbye to him. Instead, you told Jiwoo to send him your regards and another warm welcome back and headed out. Or at least that was your plan.

Somehow your timing was just as horrible as it had always been – making you reach the lobby at the same time as Seungcheol walked back inside. He was in the process of putting his phone back into the inside of his suit jacket when you saw him, your own jacket still draped over your arm as you had left in quite the hurry. Mainly to avoid him. And now, here he was. Your eyes widened when his gaze met yours and a phantom lump formed in your throat. Shit. You hated the fact that you stopped in your tracks and watched him walk over to you in a confident strut, his posture perfect, that half-smirk back on his lips.

“Y/N, you’re leaving already?” he asked when he came to a halt in front of you and you nodded, clearing your throat.

“Y-yes, I have some reading to do at the library, but it was nice to see you again after so many years, oppa.”

Seungcheol wetted his lips, his brown eyes scanning your face, stopping at your lips.

“You, too, Y/N,” something in the way his gaze was still on your face with that expression had you weak in the knees. And also sure that he wasn’t finished with his sentence yet.

“I just got back here and neither my parents nor Jiwoo are free for dinner tonight. I have a table at the city’s most prestigious restaurant and would hate for it to go to waste. Would you care to join me later?”

Boom. You weren’t sure which part of you exploded, but you were pretty sure it was the one between your legs. Oh, to have him say this sentence again in that dark voice of his with the slight tilt of his head and the knowing smirk.

“I- uh, I don’t know if Jiwoo would… approve of that.”

“Jiwoo doesn’t have to know.”

He got you there. You swallowed again. It was clear that you should listen to your head that screamed at you to say no, to say you were busy tonight. This wouldn’t even count toward the challenge because I could never ever tell her! I shouldn’t. She’s my best friend, I can’t just go and have sex with her brother!

“Oppa, I-,”

“I’m not someone who gives up easily, Y/N. Just to let you know. If I want something, I get it. And right now,” he had interrupted you and was now leaning forward, his lips so close to your ear his breath hit your skin and made goosebumps erupt all over your body, “right now, I want you. And I saw the way you looked at me, Y/N. I could basically see how you were taking this suit off, on your knees ready to do whatever I want you to do. So, the offer stands. Dinner tonight, you, and me. No one has to know.”

His hand was on your waist at this point, had wandered there sometime during his little speech that took away every single ounce of self-control and -respect you still had left. His voice crept into your ear and filled your whole body, sunk down to your core and made you press your thighs together, your lips slightly parted as a sound escaped them close to a whimper. Seungcheol grinned, knowing full well he had won.

“I’ll have a driver pick you up at seven, Y/N,” was the last thing he whispered into your ear before parting from you and going back to his welcome brunch.

-

This was a catastrophe. Dinner would be in not less than 5 and a half hours, and you had nothing to wear! Not to mention you couldn’t ask Jiwoo for help because… she wasn’t supposed to know.

“I’m screwed,” you sighed as you flopped down onto your bed, face down and pressed into your pillow. This was a horrible idea. Going out with your best friend’s brother and not telling her about it. You deserved to be this crushed, not knowing what to wear, not knowing what to do! You should have never said yes, but-

But, what? But he was too hot to say no? He was too charming, too convincing? All of these, actually. You groaned into your pillow, hands in fists as they punched your mattress. It was about to be 2pm and you had already given up on getting any reading done today. Instead, you had gone home and sorted through every clothing item you owned, sure you were about to have a mental breakdown. And, again, you deserved it. A part of you wanted to call Jiwoo and tell her the truth, maybe have her help you pick an outfit, but you quickly decided against it.

Just then, when you were sure your brain was about to shut off, your phone vibrated next to you. Sighing, you lifted your head and grabbed it, looking at who had texted you.

[Unknown]: I got you something. Wear it for me tonight, princess.

Your mouth dropped. And then the doorbell rang.

It laid on your bed, the big and fancy looking box with the words PRADA written on it. The delivery man had made you sign for delivery and had gone his merry way, leaving you alone with this box and a throbbing head. This was crazy. Seungcheol had sent you something. What kind of sugar daddy alternative universe had you gotten yourself into? And where the hell did he get your address from? You’d been staring at the box for a good seven minutes, when your phone rang again. Slowly, you looked over at your bedside table where you saw the name “Soonyoung” pop up and sighed in somewhat relief.

“Hi Soonyoung, what’s up?”

“Hey! Did I forget my wallet at your place?”

“Oh, I don’t know, let me check.”

You walked into the living space, happy to have something to do instead of looking at Seungcheol’s gift and let your eyes roam the room.

“Uhm, it’s not in the living room, where-,”

“Pretty sure I took my pants off in the hallway, might have dropped it there somewhere,” Soonyoung said, and you nodded, memories of last night suddenly flooding your brain. Gosh, you really only had slept with someone the night before and now you had plans on doing it with yet another person today (The shower had only consisted of you sucking Soonyoung off and him fingering you against the wall, so… no penetrative sex, at last). One could say you had a run.

In the hallway, you finally found it, lying next to the dresser.

“Got it!” you told him, picking it up.

“Awesome, can I swing by and pick it up?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” you thought for a second, “you can actually help me with something, too.”

Soonyoung arrived 20 minutes later, reunited with his wallet, and now standing next to you in front of the box on your bed. He clicked his tongue.

“So, you’re telling me that you just had sex with me yesterday and today you’re about to fuck Jiwoo’s brother?”

“Don’t say it like that. Makes me sound like a slut.”

“Are you… slut shaming yourself right now?”

Pause.

“Well. I’m not not slut shaming myself.”

Soonyoung snorted and shook his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he turned to face you.

“Y/N. Open the box, or I will.”

Sighing, you pulled a hand through your hair and took a step forward. Your teeth were chewing on your bottom lip, your hands shaking as you finally brought them to the box. You opened it while holding your breath, your eyes almost falling out of your skull when you saw the two main attractions.

A silk dress in a lovely dark green color that seemed too perfect to be true and a pair of shoes in your size (how did he know your size? You really didn’t even want to ask), pretty black stilettos that had straps to go around your calf. He was crazy. This was way too much.

“Holy shit,” Soonyoung said now, eyes wide, “try it on!”

You looked over at him, unsure.

“You really think I should? What if-,”

“Don’t be negative right now, Y/N. Just try it on!” Soonyoung took the shoes out of the box and rotated them, whistling in awe. Defeated, you reached for the dress, feeling like a literal princess when you felt the perfect silk underneath your fingertips. This was insane, absolute madness.

It was horrible how good it fit you. Almost as if it had been made for you. The dress flowed down to your ankles, a slit on the side showing off the beautiful shoes that now adorned your feet and even a bit of your calf. Soonyoung’s jaw dropped when he saw you, standing up from your bed.

“Holy shit, the dude has a good eye when it comes to fashion,” he mumbled, and you gnawed on your bottom lip as you walked over to the body length mirror hanging on the wall. He was right – Seungcheol had somehow picked out the perfect dress for you.

When Soonyoung left, you had taken the dress off again, his opinion on what make-up to wear and how to style your hair in the back of your head as you tried to get a little bit of work done until you had to get ready. Somehow you ended up revising your notes from one of your last lectures and found yourself ready just in time for the doorbell to ring. With a last deep breath and a long look in the mirror, you made your way downstairs, purse pressed to your chest as you walked out. And really, there was a driver waiting for you next to a pretty black Mercedes. He smiled when he spotted you and opened the door.

“Mr. Choi is already expecting you, Miss.” You nodded and thanked him as you got onto the backseat, looking around the pretty vehicle. This must have been the most luxurious car you had ever sat in. Black leather, the smell of new, lights sparkling on the ceiling. You felt like the main character of a bad chick-flick. The driver got onto his seat and started the engine, driving away from your apartment and making this whole thing more real than you could handle right now. You took another deep breath and got out your phone from your purse, seeing that Soonyoung had sent you a message.

[Soonyoung]: You can do this!! I believe in you!!

You smiled, quickly texting him back before leaning against the comfortable seat. You had to at least try to relax. Seungcheol was just a man after all. He might have been rich and powerful and your best friend’s brother, but he was just a man. You could tell Jiwoo you had hooked up with some wealthy dude at a party tonight, why would she not “allow” him to count then? She wasn’t responsible for choosing your boys anymore. This was your own decision now.

It took around 30 minutes until you arrived. Your jaw dropped when the driver helped you out of the car in front of the huge building you had seen from afar countless times. But never had you been this close. This wasn’t just the most prestigious restaurant in the city. This was also one of the most prestigious hotels. It had 65 floors, a luxurious rooftop pool as well as an indoor pool, a spa, countless beautiful rooms, basically anything you could ever think of. Never had you ever dared to think you would step foot into it. And now you were here with Jiwoo’s brother? How rich was she exactly and how had she never told you? Shaking the thought off, you thanked the driver and started making your way to the front door. A man in a suit opened it for you, bowing his head as you smiled at him and did the same.

The lobby was incredible. High ceilings with modern chandeliers hanging off of them, marble floors to your right that lead to the reception that stretched out over the whole wall, seven people currently working. You couldn’t stop staring at the art behind them, the paintings filled with so much color and life, prominent reds and blues, oranges and yellows. There were stairs going up to the first floor, one on each side of the room, leaving space between them for a long hallway that led to the elevators. And in that space, looking perfect in his dark blue suit, stood Seungcheol. He was on the phone again, one hand buried in the pocket of his tight dress pants, and you couldn’t stop but stare at his backside when he turned, your mouth going dry. God, he had really been built by every Greek God in existence.

Slowly, you walked over to him, hands holding your purse in front of you. Your eyes were focused on only him, suddenly the urge to show yourself as the confident girl you normally were taking over. When he finally turned around, his eyes found you immediately. Found the way your hair was sitting in that pretty high ponytail, how your neckline was visible and how much he wanted to already touch you and claim that neck as his. The way the dress fit you like a glove, the color so perfect on your skin, making it seem like you were glowing. And you were. The brightest light in the room came from you. He was quick to hang up the phone and walk over to you, his left hand soon on your lower back.

“You’re here,” he breathed, gaze scanning you again, making you feel naked in the best way possible. A blush crept onto your cheeks and the urge to be confident had vanished into thin air, now that he was so close, now that he was touching you.

“Of course,” you shyly smiled back, looking up into his eyes. Seungcheol wetted his lips, before parting them.

“You look incredible,” he then said, pushing you a little closer to him, his other hand now letting his thumb stroke your cheek. Every single inch of your skin suddenly started tingling. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you smiled again.

“Thank you. I love the dress. You- You didn’t have to, oppa.”

“I wanted to,” he immediately said, letting his hand rest on your cheek now.

“When I saw it, I knew it would be perfect for you. Maybe I chose the wrong career.” It took you a while to understand that he had just made a joke. Only when he smiled and you saw his dimple popping on his cheek, you felt yourself laugh, letting one hand now rest on his chest.

“Perhaps,” you chuckled.

“Well, we should go inside. Our table is ready,” he took your hand now, intertwining your fingers and leading you to the elevator at the back of the lobby. Nodding, you let him lead you there, watching how he pressed the button up, gnawing on your bottom lip. He let one hand sink back into his pocket, while the other wandered from your hand around your waist. The spot where his hand touched you felt hot, your body feeling like jelly as you waited for the elevator to arrive.

It became clear then, once you stepped inside, that the tension between you two was nowhere as thick as you had thought. It was even thicker. The door closed, the two of you the only ones inside, his grip around your waist suddenly stronger. You could taste it, feel it, smell it, the way he wanted you, the way you wanted him, and it drove you absolutely insane. You didn’t dare to look at him, mainly because you were scared you would throw yourself at him the minute he looked your way, but when you heard him breath out and found yourself pressed against the mirrored wall, it wasn’t like you had any choice.

His hands were both on your hips, his crotch pressed against you, the feeling of his bulge ever so prominent and your eyes widened. How could he be hard when you were just standing there?

“Do you have any idea what you do to me, Y/N?” he whispered, fingers digging into your skin.

“I-,” you began, but he shook his head.

“No, you don’t. Fuck, I shouldn’t have gotten you this dress because all I can think about right now is wanting to turn you around, shove that dress up your pretty ass and fuck you right into this mirror.”

Oh lord. Your core began throbbing, your eyes widened even more, your mouth parting as you stared up at him and his wild eyes that really mirrored his exact words. It was as if the scene of him pounding into you from behind right here was playing inside them.

“Oppa…,” you whimpered then and Seungcheol let out something like a low growl, before he finally leaned in, about to finally kiss you – when the doors of the elevator opened with a ping and a robotic female voice told you that you had reached the 64th floor. He parted from you visibly unhappy and grabbed your hand, leading you outside and into the restaurant.

Your table was behind a beautiful dark wood door inside a room the size of your whole apartment. The windows gave you a breath-taking view of the city, all the lights seemingly the most incredible thing you had ever seen. The table was in the middle of the room, next to it stood another small table with a bottle of champagne inside a cooler and a waiter stood there, smiling down at the two of you.

“I’ll take the steak, medium rare. Please bring us a bottle of your best red wine,” Seungcheol said, looking at the menu. You did the same, noticing that there was no price listed next to the dishes. Well, you thought, perhaps the people coming here don’t need to care about the prices. Biting your lip, you looked up and smiled at the waiter.

“I’ll have the salmon. Thank you,” you handed him the menu and the waiter nodded. Then, he placed the menus on the table next to the champagne, about to open the bottle, when Seungcheol stopped him.

“Thank you, I’ll take it from here,” he said, standing up and the waiter nodded, grabbing the menus again to walk out the door. Now, you watched how he walked over to the bottle and took it out of the cooler.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he then said as he began to open it. Your eyes looked from his hands to his face.

“Uh, okay. Well, I am an only child. My parents got divorced when I was still pretty young, but they get along, so holidays aren’t that awkward. I grew up in a small town and came to Seoul in middle school, when my mum moved out here for work. I love cats and always wanted to get one, but sadly I’m allergic so… no cats for me,” somehow the words just flowed out of you, Seungcheol smiling as he listened, the champagne bottle now popping open. He poured you a glass and then himself, handing it to you first before sitting back down.

“And what exactly do you study?” he asked once he was seated again, elbows propped on the table and hands intertwined.

“I study International relations and German Studies,” you explained, having him nod.

“Impressive. What made you choose German?” He tilted his head slightly. You don’t know how he did it, how he went from wanting to fuck you in the elevator to having small talk over champagne, but you tried your best to match his energy.

“Well, I stumbled over some German poetry a few years ago. It was translated into Korean, and I realized that the two languages have some things in common. Some phrases in German don’t make sense in other languages. They have sayings like Korean does, they can express feelings in many different ways and if you tried to say those exact words in another language… it would be hard to.”

“But isn’t every language like that?” Seungcheol asked now, catching you off guard. He seemed like he was genuinely interested. Clearing your throat, you nodded.

“Probably, yes. I’m sure that every language has phrases that only exist in that particular language. I guess it was just that poetry book I found that got me hooked on German. Maybe it could have been anything else and I would have still taken it upon myself to learn the language, but I guess we’ll never know.”

Seungcheol smiled, his eyes watching you carefully. His gaze had made you nervous up until this point – but now it just seemed like he truly wanted to get to know you.

“I understand. And how would you say is your German now?”

“Pretty good, I’d say. It’s super hard to learn, but judging by the fact I was so fascinated by it, it doesn’t really come as a surprise I caught on quickly.”

“Say something.”

“What?”

“In German. Say something to me. I won’t understand you, so say whatever,” his eyes were boring into yours and you cleared your throat, leaning forward a bit.

“Es gibt nichts was ich mir gerade mehr wünsche, als von dir gegen das Fenster neben uns gefickt zu werden,” you said, an innocent smile on your lips. Seungcheol nodded slowly, his gaze on you.

“Impressive. What did you say?”

“Oh, a lady never tells her secrets.”

He laughed, shaking his head. Then, he leaned back in his chair.

“So, you’re a quick learner then?”

“When I’m really interested, yes.”

He nodded, the smile on his lips turning into a smirk that made your heart do a flip.

“Valuable information,” he said, grabbing his glass now. He raised it and you followed his motion, looking into his eyes as if he had hypnotized you.

“To us, Y/N. And a night we won’t forget.”

The dinner went by smoothly. The food was excellent, the wine was delicious, and the company was more than wonderful. He wasn’t just pretty to look at, but he also knew how to hold a conversation. He asked the right questions, made fitting comments, flirted just enough to have your cheeks burn and your stomach flip over. He was the perfect date.

But once the table had been cleared of dishes and the door had closed behind the waiter once more, the perfect date façade was switched out for something else.

Seungcheol got up from his chair and walked over to you, hand stretched out when he reached you. Without hesitation you took it and let him lead you to the window.

“It’s enchanting, isn’t it?” he asked, and you nodded as you looked out and into the lights of the city.

“It’s beautiful,” you agreed and dared to look over at him. He was indeed looking out the window, his side profile a whole different kind of beautiful view.

“I got to know more about you, Y/N,” he began then, eyes still locked on the window, “I am sure there is plenty more to find out. But for now, I think we’ve talked enough, don’t you agree?” it took a few seconds before the words fully reached your brain, but it was already too late then. He had already grabbed your waist and slammed you against the window, his hands soon enough finding your ass, pressing you against him like he had earlier. You squealed, eyes wide and mouth open in shock, but your body was reacting just the way he wanted you to.

“I told the manager not to let anyone in after dessert,” he said in his low voice, and you felt your knees grow weak.

“H-here?” You whispered back and he smirked, grabbing your ass a little harsher.

“Has anyone ever fucked you 320 meters above the ground, princess?” his mouth was right by your ear, and his one hand moved up, to your stomach and then further, thumb pressing down on your nipple.

“N-no,” you somehow moaned out and he chuckled against your ear kissing the spot underneath it.

“Then perhaps I should give in to your earlier wish, baby,” his hand now grabbed your whole breast, squeezing it hard, thumb back on your stiff nipple and you found yourself losing the ability to speak. He- he had understood your German? Fuck, how did you not realise? He kissed your neck, slowly and sensually, his tongue licking your prickling skin. How were you supposed to answer him? Or say anything ever again for that matter?

“W-wait, y-you understood m-me?,” oh, your whole head was red. Seungcheol parted from your neck then, instead looking back down into your eyes. The hand on your breast moved up and to your cheek, thumb shoved into your mouth soon after.

“Suck,” he commanded, ignoring your question and you did, sucking his thumb even deeper into your mouth, tongue pressed against it as he watched you with sparkling eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured then before shoving your dress up with his free hand, finding your thong and ripping it off of you. You moaned around his digit when you felt him pull the ripped underwear off, saw him bring it to his face and smell your arousal.

“Fuck, so wet for me, aren’t you, baby girl?” He groaned, shoving the thong into his pocket, before pulling his thumb out of your mouth and finally crashing his lips into yours. It felt heavenly, the way he kissed you as if he had never done anything else in his life. He had the perfect balance of harsh and soft, of passionate and sweet. His one hand was now back on your ass, while the other moved forward, lifting your leg to wrap it around his waist. Your arms found their way around his neck, pressing yourself as close to him as physically possible, hands running through the locks at the back of his head.

“Oppa,” you moaned when his fingers slid over your pussy, his grip around you tightening.

“Baby, it’s not “oppa” anymore,” he said, thumb pressing down on your clit, another whimper escaping you. He began to circle his thumb, while his fingers got soaked in your juices and finally he let one sink into you, a perfect low groan escaping him.

“So, so tight and perfect for Daddy, baby, aren’t you?”

Oh. Oh. You felt your eyes roll back and your pussy clench around him, your nails digging into his scalp.

“N-ngh, y-yes so tight for Daddy only,” you cried back, and he gasped slightly, before kissing you again, his fingers still working their magic on and inside your core. God, he felt so good, everything about him felt so incredibly good. He smelled good, he made you feel good, the movements of his hands were about to drive you insane in the best way possible. His tongue was inside your mouth, devouring yours and for a few moments you forgot how to breathe. Had anyone ever kissed you like this?

Parting from you, Seungcheol opened his pants and shoved them down, you staring down now to see the big bulge inside his tight briefs that immediately made your mouth water. Seungcheol watched you with hunger in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his plump lips.

“You want to suck Daddy off so bad, don’t you, princess?” He caressed your head, fingers softly running through your hair, until he grabbed the ponytail and wrapped it around his hand, making you gasp.

“Common, get on your knees for me,” he murmured, pushing you down and you obliged willingly, your eyes glued to his cock the second you were seated. You swallowed once, before you let your hands wander to his briefs, pushing them down and biting your lip when his cock sprung out, red at the tip, pre already leaking. He was thick. Thick and big. Maybe even bigger than Mingyu. You felt like passing out, your head already spinning from how much you wanted him down your throat, inside your pussy anywhere, really.

Stretching out your tongue, you licked off the precum from his tip, sliding your tongue through his slit. Seungcheol took it upon himself to pull the hair tie out of your hair, making it fall down your back and pretty waves. His fingers skimmed through them now as his eyes watched you carefully take his cock into your pretty mouth. He really feared that you were gonna make him cum within mere seconds.

“Good, take in as much as you can, baby,” he praised you, hand now flat on the back of your head, pushing you further. You nodded, mouth stretched as wide as possible around him, his tip soon hitting the back of your throat, causing a minimal effect. Perhaps practicing with Mingyu had weakened your gag-reflex. You swallowed him down, causing him to moan in pleasure, his hand now in a fist around your hair, mouth hanging open. His hips thrusted slightly, you now with most of his cock inside your mouth and down your throat. Looking up, you saw that he was still staring down at you and your core throbbed desperately. You needed friction and you needed it soon.

“Fuck, you look so pretty with my cock down your throat,” he licked his lips and moved his hips once more, your eyes rolling back when you felt him leave your throat for a second only to push back in. He could tell that you liked it, that you were completely fine with him fucking your throat, and so he made his movements bigger, pulling all the way out and pushing right back in, your muffled moans music to his ears. He himself couldn’t stay quiet either, his moans deep and perfect, shaking your whole body with want as you tried to keep your eyes open to watch him watch you.

Soon he became sloppier, harder, and quicker, one hand now helping him keep his balance by leaning against the window, the other still fisting your hair while his own head was thrown back in complete agony. Never had anyone taken him this well, never had anyone’s coughs and chokes been as much of a turn on as yours. Because even though you weren’t gagging, you still found yourself choking on him a few times, felt yourself coughing when he slipped out. And he loved every single bit of it. To give our throat a break, he began fucking your cheek, his climax almost immediate when he saw the way you looked with your cheek stuffed with his cock, his groan so desperate you felt like you were going to die. Quickly, he pulled out, holding his cock by the base and breathing hard as he watched you regain all your senses. The thick string of precum mixed with saliva connecting his tip to your mouth was not helping his case in any shape or form.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum, princess,” he murmured, and you looked up at him with pouty lips.

“Would love to eat Daddy’s cum,” you said and Seungcheol’s cock twitched in his hand, a quick movement of his pulling you back on your feet. Now, he had you turned around, your frontside pressed against the window, all the lights suddenly a blur in front of you.

“I’m sure you would, baby, but Daddy wants to fuck that pretty pussy of yours, what do you say?” He had the dress shoved up your ass, massaging your cheeks as he hungrily looked at his cock disappearing between your thighs. Grabbing it again, he let it slide through your cheeks and finally over your lips, tip pressing down on your clit and making you jump, a squeal escaping you.

“Yes, Daddy, please f-fuck me,” you whined and Seungcheol didn’t need to hear that twice. He pushed inside you almost immediately, his thrusts hard and quick from the get-go. And fuck, was he huge. So huge it took you a while to get used to him, to have the pain turn delicious, to feel like you were about to be split in half but in the best sense possible. He had only prepped you with one finger and as big as his hands were – they were no match for his cock.

“Yeah, so good for Daddy, baby, common, I know you can take it all, fuck,” his hands laid on your hips as he moved, sweat on the top of his forehead. You relaxed into the glass; hands next to your face as you smelled the wine from your breath.

“S-so b-big,” you cried out and Seungcheol stopped moving for a second, his hands moving to your front, one of his thumbs slowly beginning to circle your bud.

“You want me to stop, princess?” he asked, soft voice making goosebumps erupt all over you. But you were quick to shake your head.

“N-no! Just keep going, please, Daddy.”

Seungcheol nodded, controlling his thrusts more this time, wide and slow, thumb matching the energy on your clit. You felt yourself starting to drool against the glass, your hips wiggling against his crotch. He had to hold back, his balls so freakin tight, but he didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t want to make you feel discomfort. And so, he let you get adjusted, let you feel him slow and full, and once his whole cock filled you, he stopped, taking his hand away from your pussy.

“Move,” he then said, squeezing your ass cheek, and you nodded, endless pretty moans falling off your lips as you began to move your hips back and forth on his cock, your eyes rolling back as you couldn’t help but quicken your pace. Seungcheol watched how his cock kept on disappearing inside of you, how your ass wiggled whenever it hid his abdomen, and soon he couldn’t hold back anymore. He grabbed your waist with both hands and held you still, his eyes roaming over your body, lips and throat dry, cock painfully hard.

“Can Daddy fuck you now?” he asked calmly, and you nodded desperately.

“Pl-please! Fuck me hard, Daddy!” You were gone, completely lost to your lust. He did as asked the next second, pounding into you hard and quick, one hand had moved and was now pressing your head against the window, your moans muffled against the glass.

“Sh-shit, god your pussy feels so fucking good, made Daddy so proud, made me wanna cum so hard and deep inside your perfect cunt” he slapped down on your ass, catching you by surprise, a deep moan now erupting from your throat as he continued fucking you, his fingers digging so hard into your waist that he could already see marks forming. God, he wanted to ruin you. He threw his head back again, letting all control leave him and instead concentrate on his climax.

“I’m gonna cum!” you suddenly blurted out, you climax hitting you a second later, seemingly out of nowhere. Your pussy clenched around his cock, squeezed him tight, and Seungcheol felt like he was going to explode, both of his hands now finding their way back to your waist where they stayed as he fucked you through your orgasm and finally spilled inside of you, his cum feeling warm as it trickled back down your leg once he pulled out. He jerked himself off, making some cum land on your ass and his low noises made you feel like you could cum again the next second.

“Fuck, baby, you did so well for me,” he had let go off his cock and instead moved to turn you around, pulling you against his chest. Both of you were still fully dressed except for your underwear and Seungcheol’s pants and briefs were pooling around his ankles. You looked into his eyes, smiling as he leaned down to kiss your forehead.

“Daddy was so good to me,” you giggled, and he kissed you, first on the lips, then on both your cheeks. Who knew he could be this cute?

“Let me get you cleaned up, baby,” he cooed and parted from you after one more kiss, grabbing for the napkins on the table where the champagne had been on. You turned around for him again, his careful hands wiping away the cum that had left traces on your ass and inner thighs and legs. He kissed every spot he cleaned as he got up and finally you turned back around to him. He also cleaned himself and tucked him back in, pants and briefs to their places again. You, on the other hand, didn’t have any underwear left.

“Sorry about that,” he grinned, but you were pretty sure he felt no remorse whatsoever.

“It’s okay, the dress is long enough,” you laughed, watching him carefully. What was going to happen now? Was he going to send you home, now that he had gotten what he had wanted from you? You looked over at the table and bit your lip, unsure what to do.

“I have a room here,” he said, grabbing his suit jacket from the chair, “I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to let the night end here.”

Relief washed over you and a smile appeared on your lips.

“I’m not ready yet either, oppa.”

Y/N’s POV

“YoooOOOoo KIM Y/N OPEN THE DOooOOR!!”

My hand not faltering as I scripted my essay, I let out a chuckle. The banging at the door continued. I didn’t let it bother me; He had keys and I had an essay to finish. Yeonjun and I have been college dormmates for a bit more than a year now and I’ve gotten plenty used to his usual Saturday night trips to the bar. I put my pen to my lips thoughtfully, mentally debating whether to open the door for him or not. He could be pretty drunk listening to the way he was yelling at the door.

I was about to get up to let him in when he let himself in and stumbled over to the couch. I couldn’t help but laugh at his disheveled look. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, blush colouring his cheeks. His ripped jeans and denim jacket had dark stains all over them. I guessed it was alcohol - I hoped it was alcohol. Unfortunately, he absolutely reeked of the bar. My scented candles wouldn’t do much to cover the smell.

I made a move to close the door but Yeonjun grabbed my wrist. I tried to twist out of his grip but he held me firm. His eyes were barely open.

He’s so drunk.

“Don’t leave me, Y/N.”

My eyes widened. He never talked to me like this. Biting my lips, I made for the door again.

“I just need to close the door, Yeonjun. I’m not leaving.”

Yeonjun groaned, but let go of me reluctantly. I could feel his eyes on me as I squeaked the door close.

If he drinks a little water now, it should help with his hangover tomorrow.

I walked to the kitchen to get him a glass. He let out a loud whine. I rolled my eyes. He reminded me of a sad puppy. The way he could feel me moving around reminded me more of the foxes I’ve been reading about. I laughed at him and shoved him into a proper sitting position.

“Drink.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, sticking his lips out.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Your hangover is going to be terrible tomorrow. Please drink this so I won’t have to hide the painkillers from you again.”

Yeonjun leaned in closer. I could feel his hot breath against my cheeks. Nudging him away, I asked him again to drink the water.

“I deal with my hangovers just fine.”

He turned away like a little kid asked to eat vegetables. I sighed. It was already midnight.

“Yeonjun, please~ Just drink it for me?”

Before I realized what I said, he whipped his head around again. He took the glass - with my fingers still around it - and chugged it down like I’d seen him chug a bottle of somaek. Exhaling loudly, he licked his lips. Our fingers were still entangled around the glass.

I didn’t know what was happening. My heart was..racing? And my face felt like it was burning up. I’d never felt feelings like this when I was with Yeonjun. I was used to his bizarre drunk behavior but tonight was...different.

“YAH!”

Yeonjun’s sudden yell made me jump in surprise.

“Y-Yes?”

“I LIKE YOU KIM Y/N!!”

“WHAT?!”

I put the glass down on the table and grabbed yeonjun’s jacket collar.

“CHOI YEONJUN I CAN’T DATE GUYS YET! MY PARENTS WOULD KILL ME! I NEED TO GET TO UNIVERSITY THEN I CAN DATE! EVEN THEN, I HIGHLY DOUBT MY PARENTS WILL LIKE SOME GUY WHO CONFESSED WHEN HE’S DRUNK! ARE YOU ACTUALLY EVEN CONFESSING?! YOU’RE SERIOUSLY DRUNK RIGHT NOW!”

Yeonjun hiccuped and giggled. For some reason, I found that adorable and laughed too. Letting go of his collar, we stared at each other from the opposite sides of the sofa. Recounting the last few minutes, I thought I might have phrased my words wrongly. Opening my mouth to speak, Yeonjun cut me off by nuzzling his face into the middle of my sweater. His arms snaked around my waist and I was trapped.

My heart skipped a beat. My hands found themselves brushing through his hair. This felt nice. It felt right. I liked it. Like, I really liked it.

“Studies say the things people say when they’re drunk is their hidden truth. Even if you don’t believe me, you can’t blame me for trying. Let me have tonight please, Y/N?”

“Yeonjun..I like you too.”

I thought I saw a childish grin slide across his face.

“Huh...I must be really drunk ‘cause I think I heard you say you like me too.”

I chuckled. Brushing his hair gently, I placed a small peck on his lips.

“Sleep, Yeonjunie. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

The city glowed outside your window. You sat up in bed, unable to sleep. The day had exhausted you but your body buzzed, reliving the events of Art 111 on loop.

Getting up to splash water on your face, you looked at your fatigue in the mirror. It was his fault. Professor Wayne had done this to you, made you feel like part of your body hadn’t left the classroom. Feeling so immediately drawn to someone wasn’t you, and especially not a professor. It was childish. You weren’t a high schooler doodling the name of the English teacher in your notebook. You didn’t have anything as frivolous as a crush.

Back in your room, you opened up your laptop and checked the school calendar. The Add/Drop deadlines were confusing, but after a few frustrating minutes you were pretty sure you could drop the class with a full refund before the end of the second week. Your cursor hovered over the “drop class” button but you couldn’t bring yourself to click it.

It was his fault. His fault for looking at you like that, holding your hand like that, running his hands through his hair like that. Didn’t he know what that could do to someone?

You threw yourself back into bed. A train shuddered the building and you slammed a pillow over your head to drown out the noise.

* * *

A week later, you were back on campus for the second week of classes. The morning engineering lecture, an introduction to stoichiometry, had been uneventful. The professor droned on for nearly two hours. You had to squint to make out his slides from the top of the lecture hall, the beginnings of a headache poking at your temples from the eye strain.

After what felt like an eternity, you shuffled out of the auditorium and found yourself on campus with seven hours to kill before Professor Wayne’s class started.

“I saw the amount you requested for the term. It’s a little steep, don’t you think?” You uncle’s voice voice hummed through your earbuds. He had interrupted you while you had been working on a sketch of the university library.

“There were some extra course fees.”

“I see.”

“Look, do you want me to go to school or not?” You drummed the marker against your sketchpad as you studied the gargoyles lining the roof.

“It’s not about what I want, you know that. I’m only following the stipulations your father—”

“Stop, okay, I get it. Don’t remind me.”

Your uncle inhaled sharply. You pictured him pulling the phone away from his head so he could let out a slow breath through pursed lips before continuing. “Your father really wanted this for you. Can’t you just be happy knowing you’d be making him happy? He would love to see you graduate, get a nice job, make a name for yourself.”

The pause conveyed your eye roll inaudibly.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, his tone softening. “I miss him too. I’ll transfer the money but please, try to focus on school a little more. It’s for your own good.”

He hung up as you translated the building to the page, thin lines from the pointy end of the chisel marker following the mortar between bricks. The homework for 111 had been to sit somewhere for one hour and draw everything you saw.

“This assignment is all about careful observation,” Professor Wayne had explained. “Try to have the mentality that anything you can see, you can draw. What you pay attention to in your surroundings will become what’s on your page.”

If that were true, your sketch pad would have been full of dark overcoats and fingers sailing chalk across a green ocean.

You compared your drawing to the building in front of you. The library’s main tower was lopsided and you were drawing in permanent marker. You tried to imagine what Professor Wayne would say. “Mistakes are part of the artistic process,” or some similar platitude. It was unnerving how vividly you could hear his dark voice, his cadence. The warmth of his hand and his breath rushing past your ear…

You shut off your phone’s timer—seven minutes early, but no one needed to know—and packed up your bag. You needed something to get school off your mind.

* * *

Winding your way through the halls of the Gotham City Museum with Titus was a solid attempt at wasting an afternoon. The museum was opening a new exhibit and Titus had snapped up a week-long security gig. Tickets were complimentary.

“Nicole was fine with you working on the side?” you had asked when he first told you about the job.

“As far as she knows, I’m in Philadelphia right now for Great-Aunt Mavis’ wake.”

Now, the two of you examined a dinosaur skeleton named “Haddy Jr.” Thin wires looped down from the atrium ceiling to support the creature’s languorous tail and neck. The display was cordoned off with gold stanchions holding red velvet ropes. A small child grabbed one of them and started swinging on it, their guardian apparently absent.

“Shouldn’t you do something about that, Mr. Security Guard?” you joked to Titus.

“Hey, I don’t clock in until midnight tomorrow. Until then, Haddy Jr. is all I’ve got to worry about.”

“She’s the first complete fossilized Hadrosaurus found in the world, apparently,” you read from the placard. “Wait, since when is there a state fossil?”

“Sometimes I forget you didn’t learn all this in elementary school. Trust me, if you had had Mrs. Brooks you would know. If you didn’t remember the state tree or flower she would lose it.”

The little kid squealed as they pulled against the rope barrier with all their puny weight, making the chain connectors rattle. A middle aged man speed-walked over and scooped the kid up, smiling apologetically at you and Titus as the kid started to cry, hands grasping out towards the dinosaur. You smiled back, trying not to wince at the noise.

“What would Mrs. Brooks think of all that?” You asked once the two were out of sight.

Titus chuckled. “Probably get out the chalk, make them write lines. She hated that she wasn’t allowed to hit us anymore, I think. She’d carry around this big ruler and—,” he slapped his hands together, “—right behind you to make you jump.”

Unbidden, your mind conjured up an image of Professor Wayne, yardstick in hand, ready to dole out punishment. Stop it, you thought. That’s too weird.

“She sounds awful,” you said as you and Titus walked away from the dinosaur. A group of middle schoolers on a class trip walked up to the sign as you left, giggling about something only they understood.

“Yup. Well, she’s up there with Mavis now anyway, so the kiddos of Gotham don’t need to worry.”

“Wait, is great-aunt Mavis real?”

“Nah, I’m just bullshitting. Let’s check out the food court, I’m starving.”

As you walked, passing paintings, historical artifacts, sculptures, and the occasional taxidermied animal in a display, you berated yourself. This was supposed to be taking your mind off of things. You were supposed to be enjoying a break away from the hum drum of dead-father-mandated school. You had thought you needed some escapism to take your mind off the fact that you had no long-term plans, no ambition besides finishing a degree and cashing out your trust fund.

Even when he was dying, your father had hated how much time you’d taken away from school. When he’d first gotten sick, you’d taken academic leave thinking he would get better. When he hadn’t, you’d dropped out completely to help care for him.

“You’re wasting so much time here,” he’d said. “I’m paying these nurses for a reason. Don’t let me hold you back. You can’t let me get in the way of your goals.”

What goals? You’d gone to GU hoping to figure out what you wanted from life, and you’d had it all taken away before you could even acclimate. Goal number one: keep Dad alive, failed.

You’d sat by his bedside, holding his hand while he slept. His hands were thin and waxy, the nailbeds void of pigment. You hadn’t known he was awake until he spoke. “Promise me you’ll go back to school?”

The prior arguments had been about you leaving home, letting the palliative team take over his care while you flew out to Gotham and chipped away at your degree. The way he asked it this time, you knew he meant something different. He was talking about the ever approaching “after.”

Your eyes stung. As much as you wanted to make him happy, you couldn’t muster up a promise you didn’t know if you could keep. Nothing about the “after” felt real. A chasm rushing towards you to swallow you up. You didn’t even know if you would still be you, after.

“There’s nothing for me there,” you said. He was adamant that you would feel differently, regret letting the opportunities slip by.

“There must be at least some part of it you like. Something you’d rather be doing than sitting here with me all day.”

“There’s nothing,” you’d said, ending the conversation.

A month later you’d discovered the clause added to his will only two weeks before his death. His estate, put in a trust fund, with his brother as the trustee, only to be withdrawn from for payment of tuition, housing, food, or fees, conditional on you attending college. The full amount to be available upon graduation. Your father’s idea of a helping hand, your idea of an encumbrance. A welcome gift to the never ending “after.”

Well, I’m doing it. Just like you wanted.

You thought about the three weeks you’d spent in classes so far. Lecture after lecture, a smattering of essays and worksheets. Trying to memorize equations and theories. In between it all, Art 111. Scribbling in charcoal, class critiques with everyone’s homework assignments pinned on the walls for the professor to examine.

You and Titus reached the museum’s food court. As you stood in line, your phone buzzed. Your uncle had wired the money for the term to your bank account. Another chunk of your father’s savings, wasted on his dream for you.

Is there any part of it you like? you imagined him asking now.

You thought of Professor Wayne, dusting his chalky fingers off on his pant legs. How quickly he glanced away when your eyes met.

“No,” you mumbled.

Titus, in front of you in line, turned around. “Huh? What’s up?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you said, shaking your head. “Got my direct deposit, that’s all.”

After eating a greasy corn dog each, you and Titus continued your self-guided tour of the museum. It was massive, easily the biggest museum you had ever been in. You passed through an archway and were suddenly in a wing with a very different, more modern, architectural style. There was less of a crowd than there had been in the natural history wing, with all its dinosaurs and dioramas of black bears foraging for berries.

You paused in front of a bronze sculpture. It was a human-sized bat. Its wings unfolded in segments, thin bones providing structure for the webbed membranes to stretch between. A blindfold was pulled taut around its bulbous eyes and it gripped a scale between its jaws. The two empty plates bobbed up and down with the movement of the air in the room. There was a small label on the sculpture’s stand, the title was “Justice?”

“Someone thinks they’re really clever,” Titus said as he eyed the sculpture disdainfully.

“It’s giving me the creeps.”

At the end of the modern art hall, you reached an intersection. To the right were more exhibits, while the hallway to the left was blocked off with long black curtains. You could hear muffled talking and sounds of construction from behind the fabric. There was a sign on a stand in front of the curtains. New exhibit coming soon: Inside Arkham Asylum.

Arkham was the city’s oldest psychiatric hospital. It had a reputation for being notoriously cruel, with almost no oversight from the medical board. According to Titus, the Arkham higher-ups had tried to get the exhibit shut down. Since the museum was borrowing the artifacts from a private collection with connections to the Arkham family, the case had fallen through. The owner of the collection was paying handsomely for the extra security.

“Of course, they don’t want us talking about any of that to the patrons. It’s too controversial,” he said conspiratorially as you walked away from the dead end.

“You won’t have anyone trying to fight you to impress their date, at least.”

“Hey, you never know. I’ll throw down.” He pretended to duck and weave, throwing an air punch. “I’m ready to put my life on the line for Gotham City Museum!”

You laughed, then felt your face dip as you felt a sudden wave of sadness. You reached out and wrapped your arm around his. He took the gesture in stride and held your hand. The contact was comfortingly firm, grounding you. You took a deep, shaky breath.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only normal person in Gotham,” you said.

“Try telling that to the guys downtown,” he grumbled. “Lots of fish but no nibbles.”

“No, seriously. I don’t know what I’d be doing here without you.”

Titus paused, pulling you by the hand out of the way of pedestrian traffic in front of a painting. He searched your face, seeing the roil of grief you had been pushing down all day.

“You doing okay? I know it’s a lot, everything with your dad, I–”

“No, it’s nothing. Just so busy, school’s kicking my ass, and…” you trailed off. The painting you had paused in front of was expanding, filling your field of view. You felt vertigo overtake you.

He squeezed your hand. “Want to ditch? Skip the rest?”

You nodded, lips pressed together in a frown, eyes stinging. “I feel bad not seeing everything. I just, I just…”

“Okay, let’s do it. Don’t even worry about it, we saw all the good stuff.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and you started walking towards the exit together.

The entrance to the museum was the tallest area, sweeping ceilings making your steps on the marble floors echo into the jumble of crowd talk and kids running. The sensations overwhelmed and disoriented you. If Titus hadn’t been guiding you you might have given up on escaping, hiding and crying in a bathroom stall.

You passed the turnstiles, holding hands and waiting for each other to push through the metal bars that clicked how many people passed through. The setting sun dazzled your eyes as you stepped out into the Gotham evening.

On the way to the bus stop that would take you both to your apartment you passed a small crowd. People wearing ski masks were waving signs with slogans. “Arkham keeps our streets safe.” “Psychos belong behind bars.” “Keep criminals locked up.” You tried to ignore them but a masked woman rushed up and shoved a flier into your hand.

“Gotham City Museum is spreading lies about Arkham Asylum! We won’t stand for it!” she yelled then moved to the people behind you, dispersing more handouts and shouting more slogans.

The suddenness of it shocked you into alertness. Titus herded you towards the bus stop across the street just as you were about to give the protestor a piece of your mind.

“What the fuck was that?” you bristled.

Titus shook his head and rubbed your shoulder. “Like I said, it’s a controversial exhibit. People are pissed off.”

You crumpled the flyer up and shoved it deep into your pocket without bothering to read it.

* * *

At your apartment, you grabbed your portfolio bag and hugged Titus goodbye. He offered to come with you to campus, wait for you during your class. You turned him down. You wanted to be alone, give yourself time to think.

Getting into the building wasn’t a problem, you had finally gotten a current ID card. Professor Wayne and Kanara were in the classroom already by the time you arrived. You avoided glancing in his direction, not wanting to know if he was looking at you. I am not doing this, you told yourself. I am not crushing after my damn professor. You’re here to finish school and get the fuck out of here.

Professor Wayne’s voice cut through the milieu. “Okay, everyone, listen up, we’re starting with a critique of your homework assignments. I’ll explain once the stragglers make their way in, but get started by pinning your homework to the board and taking a seat.”

You listened but didn’t look his way, nose kept in your phone. Sooner or later you would have to stop avoiding him, or else it would become painfully obvious, but you wanted to wait as long as possible.

A wall of the studio was lined with felt panels, meant for displaying art. You stood near the edge of the crowd, waiting for space to clear so you could pin it up. The drawing of the library hung limply in your hand. It took two thumb tacks at the top of the page and an extra one at the bottom to stop it from curling.

Once you took a step back and compared it to everyone else’s work, your stomach sank. You remembered noticing the tower had been lopsided, but you hadn’t realized how bad it had been. Other details too, the gargoyles, bricks, the windows, all wrong. It was like the drawing had gone sour in your portfolio bag, the sketch that you remembered looking accurate to the scene in front of you had become this misshapen blob of lines that was barely recognizable as the Gotham University Library.

Scanning the other drawings, you realized that for several you could pinpoint the exact place the artist had been on campus for the project. The east dorms, the bookstore, the oak tree at the center of campus that had been growing since before Gotham existed as a city, they all matched their real life counterparts so well. When you looked back at your drawing, you felt embarrassed. The only saving grace was the few drawings that matched your lack of skill, but you couldn’t say that any of them were worse than yours.

Professor Wayne walked into your line of sight, his back to you, as he took in the long line of drawings. His white dress shirt was tucked in, a dark leather belt at a slight tilt on his hips. When he turned, the thin fabric pulled taut on his broad shoulders. You gritted your teeth and looked away.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” he said once the class had settled. “We’re not just building our drawing skills, we’re building our critique skills too. Just because it’s a ‘critique,’ doesn’t mean it’s fair game to be overly critical. We’re all still learning, me included.” He paced up and down the wall in front of the class, projecting his voice.

“To be fair to everyone, we’re all going to use the same format. I call it the critique sandwich. When you want to chime in about someone’s work, start with something you like about it. After that, give some constructive criticism, then something else you like. Okay? I’ll give an example.” He paused in front of a drawing of a park fountain done in pencil.

“Clayton, I’m picking yours because we talked about it earlier, not to pick on you.” Professor Wayne scanned the class looking for whoever Clayton was. You barely knew anyone’s names.

The kid who had made fun of you in the bookstore raised a hand, and Professor Wayne nodded in recognition when he saw him. What a generational suck up, you thought.

“Let’s see,” Professor Wayne said as he examined the drawing. “Well, Clayton, I love how you’ve used negative space to give the illusion of water spray coming off the fountain. That’s a great trick.” He pointed as he spoke, highlighting different parts of the drawing.

“Overall, I think the image could use some more contrast. Bringing a softer pencil like a 6B to these shadows can push them further, making the light areas pop just a little bit more. That being said, the texture on the fountain itself is lovely, I can tell you had a very steady hand and good eye with these small lines in the stone. Great job.”

Clayton was clearly proud of himself, holding back glee at the compliments. You could barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Professor Wayne had been too constructive with not enough critique, but you had to admit the drawing was one of the best on the board. You were certain he wouldn’t find the same redeeming qualities in yours.

The critique started in earnest and Professor Wayne pulled up a chair and joined the audience. Students stepped up one at a time, going down the line in order, and fielded questions and comments about their work. People attempted to follow the critique sandwich formula for the most part, to mixed results.

Your anxiety built as the number of drawings before yours dwindled. The last thing you wanted was to stand in front of the class and Professor Wayne and give excuses for your botched work.

“Thank you Poppy, that turned out really lovely. I think if you incorporate that technique into the next project you might find it works well with your style. Okay, who’s next? I think we can get to everyone before the break at this rate.”

Poppy’s sketch of the view from her dorm window was pinned right next to yours. Time to walk the plank. You begrudgingly stood and stepped up next to your sketch. It felt uncomfortable to be the center of attention, acutely aware that almost no one there knew you. Professor Wayne’s deep blue eyes were a refuge from the blinking horde of the rest of the class, but one that you resented.

“This is the GU library, from one of the benches out front,” you said, your throat painfully dry. “I, uh, used marker.” You paused, trying to think of something else to say about the work. You opened your mouth then quickly shut it, realizing you had nothing else to add. Professor Wayne nodded and wrote something down in a binder. You hadn’t realized he was taking notes.

There was a long beat of silence, then Professor Wayne spoke up.

“Well, does anyone have anything to say about Y/n’s work? Comments, questions? I’ve got a few, unless someone else does.”

“Yeah, actually,” said Clayton, raising his hand. Your heart sank. “First off, I think marker was the perfect choice here, it gives it that raw, unedited feel.”

It didn’t quite sound like an insult but it rang hollow in your chest. The drawing did look unedited, if unedited meant it had multiple glaring mistakes you couldn’t fix because of the permanent ink.

“My issue with this drawing is the perspective, it’s honestly confusing. The library’s tower is about to fall over and the horizon isn’t really flat. The details don’t follow any vanishing point either.”

You wished you could phase through the floor and into the basement. The classroom that had seemed so massive on the first day was now as small as a closet, stifling you and any hope you had of being artistic. You had gone out on a limb, tried something new by taking this class on a whim, and now here you were, being berated by this asshole in front of the whole class.

“Honestly, it’s not a bad drawing despite the perspective. It’s cute, I like it.”

His last comment made your mind up for you. You couldn’t do it. You wanted out. Professor Wayne studied your face and you looked away, at the door in the back of the room.

“I like it too,” Professor Wayne said. “There’s—”

You cut him off. “Actually, you can just go to the next person. This really isn’t working for me, I’m going to drop the class and take something different.”

Professor Wayne’s face fell. He looked like he had something to say but it didn’t come. The class was silent. You walked back to your seat, slung your portfolio over your shoulder and headed for the door, not bothering to take your drawing.

Eyes stinging, you walked down the arched hallway away from Art 111. The door swung closed behind you, then creaked open again a few seconds later. You ignored the urgent footsteps echoing behind you until he said your name.

“Y/n, please.”

You stopped. You gripped the strap of the portfolio bag tighter, trying and failing to hold back the wave of feelings for the second time in the day. You never cried this much.

He had followed you halfway down the hallway, hurried to catch up to you. When you turned around you saw that his shirt was rumpled, hair slightly out of place, a look of concern painted on his features.

“Are you okay?”

“I just want to go home,” you said, dabbing your eyes with your sleeve. “I’m fine.”

He rested his hands on his hips, breathing slightly faster than normal. “If this is about Clayton’s comments, I’m going to talk to him. That was too harsh.”

“No, he was right. It’s a bad drawing.”

“I don’t agree.”

You scoffed. Of course he didn’t agree. He was the professor, the one who had to say something positive about everyone, regardless of how shitty their art skills were. How the man in front of you had chosen willingly to take a job teaching pricks like Clayton was beyond you.

“I’m dropping the class, that’s it. Goodbye.”

You turned around and walked away. He didn’t follow you further. This was one way to kill a crush, at least.

The misty air outside the Crawford building concealed your tears, cooling them on your cheeks until they burned. You sat on a cold wooden picnic table on campus and pulled up your class schedule. When you had pulled up the listing for Art 111, you were confronted with the “drop class” button one last time. You pressed it without hesitation and immediately placed your phone face down on the  table, folding your arms to hide your face as you sobbed.

The day had been miserable. The only good part had been seeing Titus, and that had been tainted by the constant reminder of your uncle texting you. He had never texted you before in your life until after the will reading when you learned he was your trustee, your father’s appointed gatekeeper. He hadn’t bothered to visit more than twice in three years, and now he was trying to tell you what your father meant by putting you through this hell.

The classes, the homework, the humiliation of presenting your shitty drawing in front of Professor Wayne, Clayton being around in every class sucking up to Professor Wayne. It was unbearable, and it was only the second week.

Sobs turned to deep, heaving breaths as you ran out of tears. After a few minutes, you breathing stabilized. You sat up and rubbed your eyes, then checked your phone.

Your schedule was still open to Art 111. There was a pop-up notification on the website, covering half the screen.