mau🍌

“Morning, sunshine. So graceful of you to grant us your presence.” You sucked in a deep breath as you sat down on the chair, counting to ten mentally while trying to align every chakra in your body to not punch him square in the face in the middle of the classroom.

“Ugh, shut up, Jongho. I’m in no mood to deal with you,” he snickered at your words, watching you glare at him, finding you cute even while snapping at him. 

“Come on, what happened to you? Rough night? Were you up all night thinking about me?” The mere thought sent shivers down your spine, a grimace on your features as you took out your study material. 

“Please, as if I would ever.” You snorted slightly, shifting your entire focus to the class that was already starting, so that you could earnestly ignore him. 

The class went by smoothly, Mr. Yoon talking about the different types of property law while you took notes, focused on his words. A small crease between your eyebrows appeared while you read some cases the professor had mentioned, which Jongho found devastatingly adorable. Still, he was never going to admit it out loud. 

“This project is quite important for your grade,” Mr. Yoon continued explaining once the time for the class’s end was nearing, moving over to his desk, picking up his glasses, and setting them low on his nose before picking up a piece of paper with some letters scribbled on it. “It’ll run all semester, and you will do it in pairs.” He emphasized, looking over the rim of his glasses at his students.

He began reading names off it, a groan dying at the back of your throat when you realized he had chosen the pairs, bummed that you probably wouldn’t be paired up with one of your friends. Your ears perked up when you heard your name, body still as you waited for the next name to be read off the paper. 

“...Choi Jongho,” he finished reading, making your blood run hot, and your eyes roll as Mr. Yoon calmly took off his glasses and set them on his desk with the piece of paper. “You will all work together, during the duration of this assignment, and before any of you ask, no, you may not switch partners at any point. You’re adults, and you should learn to work with people you don’t like.” You bit back a groan as you threw your head back, already feeling irritated at the thought of being stuck with Jongho, even more, for the rest of the semester. 

“You’re all dismissed, have a good day.” Mr. Yoon swept his hair back and began gathering his things, most of the students scrambling out the moment the words left him. You continued gathering your things, shoving them down into your bag. 

“See you soon, sunshine.” Jongho slung his backpack on one of his shoulders, shooting you a small smile that only made you roll your eyes.

“Hopefully not, Jongho.” You stood up, walking past him as you hung your bag on your shoulder. Leaving him there, with a small smile on his face as you walked away. 

Ugh, you’re so endearing sometimes. 

The following week had been pure suffering, as you would describe it. You and Jongho, stuck in the library for hours on end, slowly making progress on your project. It was a personal hell of yours; you were sure you would end up with wrinkles by the end of the semester, given how much scowling and grimacing you were doing at him. 

“No, Jongho. That’s not the way we’re supposed to do it.” You argued, pointing to the document containing the project's instructions. 

“Yes, but this way it’ll look better, and the professor will be satisfied either way,” he argued back, sliding his own laptop where the shared document was. You sucked in a deep breath, a hand coming to scratch the back of your head, asking every god to give you patience, because if they gave you strength, you might strangle him.  

“That makes no sense, Jongho. Just do it the way the instructions say.” Your hand slid down to rub your temple. The clicking of his tongue reached your ears, and you sighed. “Do it.”

“Fine, no need to get feisty, sunshine.” he lifted his hands in mock defeat, running one of them through his soft black hair. 

This was going to be a long semester. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“I just can’t believe he paired us together, Woo.” Your eyes rolled, leaning your head on Wooyoung’s shoulder while you walked around campus. 

“Relax, it’ll be over before you notice,” he ran a hand through your hair. “Besides, what could be so daunting about working with him anyway?” he quirked a brow, curious as usual. 

“He’s just an asshole.” Your own brows creased, nose scrunching at the same time. “And he should leave me the fuck alone.”

“I never really understood what happened between the two of you.” Wooyoung shrugged, “You went on like one date, and then you came back hating him…Wait, he didn’t do anything to you, right?” His steps stilled immediately, his brows furrowed in concern as his hands wrapped around your shoulders to still you. 

“No, and it wasn’t a date. And I never liked him; in fact, I hate him.” Wooyoung frowned, as if his face was saying, Seriously? “What?” his hands lifted off your shoulders, holding them up and shrugging. 

“Nothing, I just don’t really remember you hating him.” The blood rushed to your cheeks, one of your hands coming to shove him, as a way to shut him up. “In fact, I remember you running around your room, not knowing what to wear.” 

“Well, I do.” Your voice was firm, rolling your eyes as you continued walking towards the library. 

Ms. Lim, the librarian, had hired you as her assistant, or at least one of them. She kept mentioning the past couple of days that a new person was coming to help you out, and they were just sorting out their schedules. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your brows creased at the sight of Jongho, two hours early from your scheduled meeting at the library. 

“I can come to the library, you know? This is a public study space.” He arched a brow, barely sparing you a glance as he walked past you. 

“You? Studying? Please. You'd need neurons for that,” you scoffed, matching his step as he neared the empty front desk. 

“Where's Ms. Lim?” he ignored your words as he leaned on the wood, his thick-rimmed glasses sliding slightly down his nose. 

“Not here, clearly.” You rolled your eyes at him, walking around the desk and setting your hands on the wood. “What do you want, Jongho?” You cocked your head to the side, clearly unamused by his presence in your otherwise peaceful and quiet library. 

“She asked me to come here, I’m helping her out as one of her assistants,” he pointed his words with a small smile, cocking his own head to the side. 

“You're kidding.” 

“Nope.” 

“Well, you're fired, thank you very much.” You shrugged, turning to the computer, clicking the mouse around, and tapping at some letters on the keyboard, pretending to do something. 

“Uh-huh. Where is she?” he pressed, leaning forward over the desk just a little bit more, trying to peer into the screen of the monitor. 

“Out.”

“Let me guess, you’re one of her assistants too, huh?” He ran a hand through his hair before using his pointer and middle finger to slide his glasses up his nose, a small smile curling his lips, apparently, finding your despair amusing. 

“I’m her only assistant, you’re fired. Remember?” Your smile was nothing but fake, but it only made Jongho’s heart skip a beat. It had been so long since he saw your crescent-shaped eyes looking at him while your plump lips curled in that sweet smile you had. 

Jongho just nodded, “Sure.” He walked around the desk, throwing his backpack beside yours on the floor, and rested his hands on the thick wood. 

You were for sure going to strangle him soon. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“Okay, you have to tell me.” Wooyoung looked at you through the mirror, fixing his own clothes. 

The cool air was seeping through the windows as you both got ready for a frat party you usually didn't go to, but Wooyoung had convinced you that you needed to let off some steam. 

“Tell you what, Woo?” you looked at him through your own mirror, arching a brow as you rummaged through your makeup. 

“Why you hate him, Sushi.” he turned to look at you, the damn nickname he had given you in high school after a much-too-passionate discussion about that very same type of dish, making you crinkle your nose. 

“Don't call me that.” Your eyes rolled as you stretched your back, turning to look back at him, too. “And I already told you, I just do.” 

“What happened on that date?” He pressed, hands falling to his sides as he walked to sit down on your bed, the mattress dipping below him. 

“Wait…Did you go on a date with Jongho?” San asked, stopping his mindless scrolling on his phone as he inched closer to his boyfriend, resting his blonde head on Wooyoung’s lap. 

“It wasn't a date. See what you're doing?” You hissed at Wooyoung. “You need to drop it already.” Your eyes rolled for the umpteenth time as you turned back to the mirror and finished your makeup. 

“I just want to know what made you hate him so much all of a sudden, Sushi. That's not something that happens just because.” He pressed once more, being met with your glare through the mirror. His hands lifted in surrender as he pulled out his phone, deciding not to push your buttons more. “You're going to the pre-game?” 

Your brow arched through the mirror. “What pre-game?” Wooyoung whined as he dropped his head back. 

“The pre-game I told you Sannie, and I are hostinggg.” He dragged out the syllable as he looked at you. “We're getting drinks and playing the bottle game.” 

“The bottle game? What are we, in seventh grade?” You scoffed as you sprayed setting spray on your face. Your eyes opened again to see Wooyoung deadpanning. 

“I don't even know why I try with you anymore,” he sighed, deflating and checking his phone. “C’mon, babe. Hwa hyung, Sullyoon, and her girl are on their way to the apartment.” He nudged San's head with his hip, prompting him to get up. “See you later, Sushi. Don't be a wimp and go to the fucking party, or I will come back here and drag you out.” He blew a kiss into the air as he and San walked out of your room. 

A sigh left your lips as the front door slammed shut. You turned around, eyes falling flat on the bear plushie you kept in your bedroom for a reason you didn't know yet. You walked towards it and wrapped your hands around it. 

“You should know that your father is an idiot.” You talked to the lifeless animal, a crease in between your brows. 

Because Wooyoung was right, you didn't hate Jongho without reason, and you did go on a date with him. 

But those were simpler times. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“Sushi, relax.” Wooyoung mindlessly scrolled on his phone, giggling as you took clothes out of your closet like in a classic coming-of-age movie. 

“How can I relax? He's coming in an hour, and I still don't know what to wear, Woo,” you whined as you continued rummaging through the scattered clothes. 

“He’s Jongho, he'll still think you're cute with whatever you wear.” his half-assed reassurance only made you roll your eyes while pulling out a shirt and some pants. You held them up, a silent question aimed at him, and his face lit up, nodding immediately at your suggestion. 

Once the outfit situation was sorted, you continued getting ready, quickly pushing Wooyoung out the door before Jongho was supposed to arrive. 

“Call me after! And use protection!” He cackled as you pushed him out the door, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slammed the door on his nose, running back to your room and checking your phone to see if Jongho had texted. 

jjong♡ : i just saw wooyo lol jjong♡ : u can come out whenever ur ready sunshine jjong♡ : ill wait for u 

Your heartbeat drummed in your ears, and heat pooled in your cheeks as you checked yourself out in the mirror one last time before coming out of your house. Smiling as you saw him standing outside your apartment, his thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he ran a hand through his grown-out red locks. 

“Hey.” You cringed immediately at your choice of words, nose crinkling as you locked your door shut behind you, a soft blush in your cheeks as you walked over to where he was leaning on the hood of his car. 

The beautiful black of the Bronco catching the light and making it bounce on him, making him look absolutely dreamy. 

“Hi, sunshine.” Your cheeks burned at the nickname. “You look beautiful today, too.” He smiled, walking over and standing beside the passenger door, opening the door for you whenever you were ready. 

“Thanks, Jjong.” A shy smile ran your features as you got in his car, hands instantly coming to smooth the fabric of your jeans once the door closed, exhaling a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding while Jongho walked around the car, a hand running again through his half-red locks almost instinctively. 

“So, the plan for today is coffee and then visit the fair downtown, ‘s that still okay with you, sunshine?” He asked while turning on the ignition of the car, his voice sweet as honey, making you shiver with nerves and excitement. 

“Yes, that sounds really nice, actually.” And with that, the car came to life with a soft but steady hum of the engine, all of the lights turning on for a couple of seconds before the unnecessary ones turned off. 

Jongho began driving, making quick and simple conversation with you, telling you about how Yeosang kept turning off all of the lights in their apartment before turning them back on again, and then turning them all off again. And you both fell into such a nice rhythm of conversation that you didn't notice his hand slightly snaking down until he covered your own that was limp and relaxed beside your thigh, palm to knuckles as he rubbed absent traces along your fingers. 

You both ultimately decided to skip the coffee shop and go straight to the fair, as the sunset was nearing. Once you arrived and the soft hum of the engine stopped, you took off your seatbelt and turned half of your body to open the door, stopping yourself when you heard the door slam beside you and saw Jongho almost jogging as he rounded the car, quickly opening the door for you. 

“Thanks,” the heat in your cheeks was obvious, but if anyone said anything, you'd attribute it to the cool November air. 

“You're welcome, sunshine.” He bowed his head jokingly, the nickname that had started as a tease almost becoming more popular than your name in Jongho's vocabulary. 

The rest of the afternoon was a fever dream. Jongho was nothing but a gentleman, remembering little details you had previously shared with him, like the kind of drinks you liked, the kind of games you enjoyed, and whether you liked plushies or not. Which is how you ended up with a small bear in between your arms, smiling as you kissed Jongho's cheek shyly, thanking him for winning it for you. 

“How’re you gonna name him?” He offered his arm for you to loop yours around, a soft smile on his lips when you did just that. 

“Hmm…” Your index finger flew to your chin while you pondered. Pink tinging your cheeks as you thought of the perfect name. “Jjongbear.” A full-on belly laugh escaped you when you saw his bewildered expression. 

“I'll allow it only because you're adorable.” 

For you, this was just the beginning of a beautiful relationship you and Jongho would have. 

You didn't expect it to end so fast. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The loud music boomed in your chest, slightly wincing at the sea of people dancing in the frat house. You made your way to the kitchen immediately, needing alcohol to run through your system as soon as humanly possible. You and Jongho had been working together for almost two weeks now, not only on your shared project but also as assistants in the library, and you weren’t sure whether you were going to finish the semester or be jailed for manslaughter. 

“Ugh, you should’ve been there, Sushi. Mingi came out like he had been pulled out of that closet by the dick.” Wooyoung cackled as he arrived, wrapping his arms around your hips and resting his chin on your shoulder. “I give them an hour, tops, and then they’ll fuck.” He unwrapped himself from you and rounded the table, grabbing an empty Red Solo cup so that he could pour his poison of choice for the night. 

You giggled at his choice of words, chugging the drink you were nursing in your hands. “They probably will, and you’ll probably leave me for Sannie too.” Your top lip pursed in mock disgust. Wooyoung almost choked on his drink, fighting off a loud cackle. 

“Probably,” he smiled smugly, raising his cup into the air before taking a sip, the burn of the alcohol sending shivers down his spine before groaning out like an old man, making you giggle. 

“What are you staring at, bro?” San’s voice made Jongho jump out of his skin, startled and embarrassed to be caught red-handed. 

“I-I’m not staring.” He answered with pink cheeks as he swirled the cold beer bottle in between his fingers, tracing absent-minded lines in the condensation of the dark glass.

“You –a hundred percent– are,” San stated matter-of-factly, looking in the direction Jongho had been, a small smile curling his lips once he noticed he was staring at you and Wooyoung. “Ah, I see. The one-sided love.” 

Jongho’s cheeks burned at his words. “Shut up.” He took a swig of his beer, hoping that the cool malt drink would calm the heat in his cheeks. “She looks good tonight.” He shrugged. Suddenly, the rest of the ingredients and the calories displayed in the half-wet tag on the glass were the most interesting thing in the world. “And it didn't used to be one-sided.”

“You look amazing tonight.” Wooyoung's words made you blush, hiding your face behind your cup while you took a sip of the liquid. “That skirt makes your ass look great.” 

“Wooyoung! Don't you have a boyfriend?” You laughed, looking over your shoulder, feeling eyes on you. 

“I do, but I’m also your best friend, so I'm entitled to tell you those kinds of things.” He shrugged, extending his hand for you to take. “Come, let's dance. Maybe you'll end up abandoning Sannie and me tonight for someone else.” He poked your cheek, pulling you out of the kitchen once your hand wrapped around his. 

You continued looking around, feeling a pair of eyes looking at you from afar. Once your gaze fell on a particular set of chocolate-brown eyes, your top lip pursed in dislike. “Ugh, why is he staring?” You nudged Wooyoung, voice loud over the music filling the room. 

“Because you look hot,” he looked in the direction you were discreetly pointing towards, a smirk curling his lips once he saw his boyfriend approaching your so-called nemesis for life. “And so does he.” 

Your brows furrowed, trying to catch a clearer glimpse of how Jongho looked, something that didn't go unnoticed for Wooyoung. “H-he looks like an idiot.” Your gaze cowered almost immediately, walking through the crowd and settling on a small space that housed both of you. 

“A hot idiot.”

“Fuck off.” 

And with that, the night went on. Jongho felt his heart thrumming in his chest, heat burning beneath his skin, thoughts racing, cursing whatever it was he'd done to upset you so much, wishing he had never done it so you could be his. 

He wished it were him dancing with you, his hands wrapped around your waist as you enjoyed yourself, admiring how the lights bounced off your skin and the way your clothes hugged every curve of your body. He was jealous of the people who could be by your side right now, dancing with you, making you laugh, giving you drinks. 

He hated them. 

He hated them all. But what he hated the most was that you weren’t his

It got to a point where he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t care if you hated him more after. 

He noticed them before you did, two sets of eyes ogling from the other side of the party, —he believed their names were Jay and Jake, as his faces seemed familiar from the frat he tried to join last semester, before it all went to shit with you—  He saw them, their eyes raking over your body as you continued dancing without a care in the world, a soft sheen of sweat covering your skin making it shine under the lights. 

Jongho’s jaw was tense, he knew there was technically nothing he could do to stop them. He wasn’t your boyfriend, shit, you didn’t even like the man. But still, he couldn’t stop himself when he saw the way you turned to talk to them; eyes glassy, lips parted slightly, and a soft smile that made him clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. 

“Are you Jongho’s coworker?” The two tall men beside you asked, crowding your vision and your space. 

“Tsk. I’m nothing of Jongho’s.” You were quick to answer, your brain feeling fuzzy at the edges from the alcohol. “We do work together, but I’d rather get shot in the hand than be anything more.” Your words earned you some roguish smiles from the two guys, one of them leaning —a little too close— for you to hear him over the speaker. 

“So that means you’re alone tonight?” His breath fell on your neck, leaving goosebumps in his wake. Your gaze shifted, looking for Wooyoung, who was about three feet away, lifting his glass as if he were saluting. 

“Mayb—” 

“Hey, man. Didn’t think I’d see you both here.” Jongho’s voice made your stomach churn, the smirk on your lips falling into a displeased frown as you turned around to face him. He dapped up the two guys, —whose names you had yet to learn— completely ignoring your scowl and the guys’ awkwardness as they slowly walked away a couple of seconds later. 

“So not only do you never leave me fucking alone on campus, but you also have to bother me at a party?” You chugged whatever was left in your cup, not even feeling the burn in your throat anymore. 

“You didn’t see the way they were looking at you, sunshine. I’m just trying to look out for you.” His voice was low, only for you to hear. “Come, I’ll take you home. You’re hammered already.” He extended his hand, prompting you to take it. 

“You’re wrong.” He wasn’t. “And I’m not going anywhere with you.” You tsked before you hiccupped and slurred your words, turning your back on him. “And stop fucking calling me that, I’m not your sunshine anymore.” You turned back quickly, your head spinning given how fast you moved, and then you left, walking away to find Wooyoung. 

He didn’t chase after you because you were right. 

But that didn’t mean he was going to stop looking after you, making sure you were safe from a distance. He saw you find Wooyoung, wrapping your arms lazily around his shoulders, surprising him. He saw the smile on Wooyoung's lips that mirrored yours, and his jaw clenched. He felt jealous, not of Wooyoung, of course, but of the fact that he could make you smile like that, without a care in the world, like he used to do. 

He saw you, dancing, drinking even more, and it was a miracle the beer bottle he continued nursing in his hands hadn’t burst, given how hard he was gripping it. “Just go over there, man.” He jolted at Hongjoong’s words, looking at him with furrowed brows. “How long are you gonna wait ‘till you do something? Or are you just gonna let her hate you without apparent reason for the rest of your life?” Jongho was stunned into silence. Hongjoong was always a very straightforward person when tipsy. “I’m tired of seeing you mop around for her because you’re not man enough yet to talk to her.” 

“It's not really that easy when she doesn't even want to hear about me.” Jongho hisses out, jaw set as he kept looking in your direction, eyes narrowing when he saw Wooyoung stepping away and leaving you to dance with a random dude. 

“Well, if you never man up, you'll lose her, bro.” Hongjoong tapped his shoulder with slightly more strength than needed, making him take a couple of steps forward to keep his balance. Jongho breathed out a long sigh, taking in the words of his hyung. 

Meanwhile, you were having the time of your life.

If you weren’t hammered before, you definitely were now. Alcohol ran through your veins, your brain felt fuzzy, and your body felt lighter than it should ever be. You felt a pair of hands on your hips, a crotch brushing on your ass as your body moved to the rhythm of the music. You felt multiple eyes on you, but you didn't care, not when you felt so at ease and relaxed for the first time in a while. 

You heard some words being whispered against your sweat-slick skin, although you weren’t really sure of the owner of the voice or even what they were saying; your focus was on the music and on the lightness of your body. You felt a hand wrap around your wrist, pulling you away and all the way out of the party, the cool midnight breeze hitting you immediately. 

“Hey!” A sharp voice echoed behind you, making the person who was pulling you out stop for just a moment. “The fuck are you going?” Wait, you knew that voice. Even in your fuzzy state, you would recognize that voice anywhere.

Jongho.

“I’m just taking her home, man.” A strange voice beside you replied, tone uneasy as if they had been caught red-handed. You turned to face the stranger with furrowed brows, trying to make out who this person was. 

“Tell me her name.” Jongho’s tone was sharp like a blade, his fists clenched at his sides as he watched the man beside you scoff, almost bothered by his intervention. 

“Why do you care? You her boyfriend or something?” The stranger tightened his hold on your wrist slightly, making you wince in pain. Even in your drunken and fuzzy state, you realized that you did not know the man holding your wrist right now, forcing your hand out of his grasp quickly, making him stumble a little, definitely not expecting you to do that. 

“He is.” Your words slurred, and Jongho’s breath got knocked out of him. The crease of his brows eased, and his lips parted in surprise, all words dying in his throat at your drunken words. “Get the fuck away f’me, I don’ even know you.” You stumbled your steps towards Jongho, who was quick to escape his trance and meet you in the middle, catching you right before you tripped on your own feet. 

“Whatever, bro.” The stranger scoffed and walked away, leaving you there, with Jongho’s hands around you, avoiding your imminent fall. 

“Let me take you home, sunshine.” Jongho’s voice was almost pleading. He hoped you would remember calling him your boyfriend in the morning. His heart was doing somersaults in his chest, even though he was well aware it was a lie, and you would probably never see him that way again. 

“Leave me alone, Jongho.” You pushed him away, scowl on your face. “I jus’ said that shit so he’d leave me alone.” You admitted, your slurred words hitting him square in the chest. “ ‘m not gonna be stupid enough to fall for you again. And I’m not your fuckin’ sunshine!” You hissed out, swatting at his chest. “You will never be my boyfriend, Choi Jongho, I hate you!” You spat out in anger, heavy tears rimming in your eyes as you continued swatting his chest. 

“I’m not leaving you alone in the street, let me at least find Woo-” 

“I don’t need your fuckin’ help, bro! I need you to fuckin’ leave me alone!” You stumbled backwards, making space in between your bodies. Perhaps your words were being too harsh, but then again, you were drunk, and you didn’t exactly have that voice in your head that made you think before you speak. 

Because if you weren’t drunk, you would’ve seen the effect your words were having. Random people eavesdropping and whispering about what you were saying, Jongho’s ears red from humiliation, and a small flicker of hurt in his eyes. And the worst part? Jongho thought you probably wouldn’t even remember. 

“Hey, there you–” Wooyoung came out of the frat house, hair messy — as if someone’s hands had been tangled in his red locks— and out of breath, wincing instantly when he saw the scene. He quickly shortened the distance between you and rested his hand on Jongho’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. We’ll take her home.” His voice was low enough for the dark-haired man to hear, and as if he was summoned, San appeared behind his boyfriend, giving Jongho a reassuring nod.

Jongho sighed out, long and deep, before nodding and turning his back on the friend trio, walking towards his car, leaving you safe with Wooyoung and San, which was all he cared about, really, that you were safe.

Shortly after he left, and Wooyoung and San managed to get you inside an Uber, you arrived at your apartment with hot, thick tears running down your face. Babbles and sobs were the only things coming out of your mouth as your friends tried to change your clothes and get you to bed. 

“C’mon, Sushi.” Wooyoung cooed while rubbing your back with one hand, the other one holding your hair up as you emptied the contents of your stomach in the toilet. “We got you, it’s okay.” He reassured, offering you a glass of water after you were done. 

You were going to wake up like shit. 

And not only because of the headache you were for sure going to have, but because you will remember. 

You had never been the “black-out” type of drunk, no matter how much you drank. Which meant you would remember, from the moment you affirmed that Jongho was your boyfriend to a complete stranger, to the moment you berated him in the middle of the street, up until this moment, of you, lying in bed awake, far more sober than when you arrived, thinking about how he looked at you.

How his eyes shone when he heard you slur out those two words and stumble towards him, and how he looked at you like you had fucking kicked his puppy once you two were alone. 

You had your issues with the man, but why did seeing his face like that hurt your chest so much? 

No, no, he’s Choi Jongho, the man you swore you would hate until the last of your days. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ 

The library had finally quieted down after a particularly awkward shift. Ms. Lim was out sick and had tasked you and Jongho with managing the library for the couple of days she’d be out. 

As if dealing with Jongho on a daily basis wasn’t enough, Ms. Lim had decided to fall sick, leaving you with the man you had publicly berated outside of a frat party while drunk, had a complicated history with, and couldn’t seem to fucking escape.

“Ready to close up?” Jongho’s tone was slightly nervous; this was the first time in the whole day he was trying to make conversation, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. 

You barely spared a glance at him as you pointed to the “returned books” cart behind you, —overflowing as always— while you continued typing away at the computer. “We also have to work on Mr. Yoon's project.” Your tone was barely there, words sharp as you barely paid any attention to him. 

“Yeah, right.” His gaze avoided you like the plague. There was a strange feeling stirring in your chest. Were you sick?

“Get rid of the stragglers so that we can work on that and I can get out of here.” You ordered, and he nodded, kindly approaching the couple of students that remained in the library with their heads buried in books. 

You paid no mind to him, only side-eyeing him every couple of seconds. Just to make sure he was actually getting rid of the people so that you could get out of here, of course. But a particular interaction made you turn your head to see better. 

Most students were gathering their things and leaving the library just as Jongho had politely asked them to, but he had approached a table occupied solely by a girl with a soft crease between her brows that eased when Jongho tapped his finger on her shoulder lightly. You couldn't hear what they were saying to each other; you could only see Jongho’s soft smile and her cheeks blush, and you scowled. A small giggle of hers reached your ears. What was so fucking funny? 

“If you're done flirting, the library's closed.” Before you could stop yourself, your feet had led the way all the way to a couple of steps beside Jongho, making him turn to you wide-eyed as the girl's cheeks burned crimson and she began gathering her things quickly. “You and I still have shit to do, c’mon.” You pointed your head to the side, motioning towards the front desk. 

“Have a g-good night, you two.” The girl shyly nodded before slinging her bag on her shoulder and leaving the library with quick steps. 

Once the heavy oak slammed shut, you turned around, walking towards the light switches, turning the overhead lighting off and leaving just the dim lighting of the hallways between the bookshelves. Jongho was quick to follow you, with his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“What the fuck was that?” He followed you all the way back to the front desk, watching you pick up your laptop and some papers, your shoulder brushing his as you walked past him towards the law bookshelf, where you both normally sat on the floor to make progress on your project. 

“What the fuck was what?” The strange feeling kept stirring in your chest; perhaps you were coming down with something. You carefully left your things on the floor, not meeting his gaze as you browsed for one of the books you wanted to use for your project. 

“Don't play stupid. I wasn't flirting with her, I don't even know her.” His hands flailed around, trying to catch your attention as you kept looking around the bookshelf for the book. “I don't even know why I am explaining myself to you, ‘s not like you're my girlfriend or something.” 

“Please. As if I would ever be stupid enough to be, don't make me laugh.” You finally turned to face him, closer than you'd expected to be. You took in his expression, a flicker of hurt passed through his eyes, but it was quick to turn into frustration. 

“What the hell is your problem?” He took a step closer, voice low as his eyes searched for yours.

“You are! You have been my problem, all semester long, and you will be until it’s over!” You took a step closer to him, your eyes shooting daggers into his. 

“You react as if you’re not a pain in my ass yourself!” He snapped, taking one step closer. Your breaths mixing at the closeness. You scowled, your eyes bouncing back and forth between his eyes, taking in his beautiful chocolate orbs, the crease in between his eyebrows. 

You knew it now, you were jealous. 

Seething with jealousy, that is. By the way he just made a simple conversation with that girl, making her laugh and blush, just like you used to at his words. Was it just that easy for him? 

“How am I a pain in your ass? You're the one who won't leave me the fuck alone!” Your voices were much louder than they needed to be, thank god you cleared the library before. You couldn't live with the embarrassment and the afterthought of having yelled at him in public twice. 

“You're the one who's acting like a child all of a sudden!” His nose scrunched, now–black hair falling over his forehead after his hands ran through his locks in frustration. Your eyes were locked on his, his chocolate orbs dark with fury and something else you couldn't describe yet. Jongho was exasperating, but up close, he was breathtaking. 

His tan skin glowed in the golden lighting of the library, his plump, pink lips slightly parted. Your eyes traveled back up to his, realizing his own gaze had traveled down to your lips. The knot between his eyebrows had softened, his eyes staring into yours with an expression you didn’t have time to name, because when you noticed, his lips were on yours. 

His lips tasted of honey, and a pent-up frustration you felt deep in your bones. Your hands had fisted his shirt near the midriff, scrunching up the fabric, while his own hands had tangled in your hair, softly tugging at the unruly strands that wrapped around his fingers. 

Your heartbeat was drumming in your ears. You hated Choi Jongho, right? 

Why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you want him to?

The familiarity of his lips against yours didn’t ease the tension in your shoulders, muscles on fire at how strained they were. Your lips parted, and he took it as an invitation to slip his tongue in your mouth, a soft moan reaching his ears, making him shudder. 

Seconds after, the kiss broke, a small trail of saliva connecting your lips while you both looked at each other with parted lips, wide eyes, and shallow breathing. “Whatthef—” is all you could get out before his hands slipped from your hair and cradled your jaw, interrupting every thought you had. 

“Tell me you don’t want this.” His eyes searched for yours, “Tell me you don’t want me, tell me you hate me, and I’ll leave and leave you alone once and for all.” His tone was almost pleading. You could feel the slight tremble in his hands, the almost imperceptible hesitation in his voice. 

I do, I hate you. Were the words you wanted to say. Instead, they got caught in your throat as your lips crashed into his once more, hands balling up the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him flush to you. “I want you.” You whispered on his lips, and while the rational part of you was screaming at you in your head, the part of you that thought with your heart was dancing in glee. 

A soft sigh of pleasure left his lips, doubt slipping away from his mind as you kissed. His hands began roaming your body, softly squeezing the flesh at your waist, as if trying to ground himself, an effort that proved futile as a small moan rolled off your lips right into his, making his pants feel tighter than they already were. 

His lips began trailing down your jaw, stopping just above your pulse point, and leaving small open-mouthed kisses in the skin as your hands wrapped around his midnight locks, softly tugging at the roots. 

Jongho’s hands sat low on your hips, his hold dizzying as he continued leaving small kisses all across your neck and collarbones as much as your shirt allowed him to. “J-Jjong…” your soft mewl reached his ears and travelled all the way down to his cock, twitching in his pants at the sound of the nickname. 

A soft hum rumbled deep in his chest as he leaned back, quickly removing your shirt in a swift motion, his eyes travelled through your torso, admiring the way your skin basked in the soft amber hue of the library lighting. You cowered, hands slowly coming up to cover yourself, “No, no. Don’t do that, c’mon.” Jongho wrapped his hands on your wrists, letting your shirt fall to the carpeted floor beneath you. “You’re beautiful, sunshine.” His velvety voice sent a shiver down your spine, letting your hands fall to your sides as you felt the heat creep up your neck. 

Your hands reached to tug on his own shirt, the black fabric wrinkled after your frantic hold on it. He helped you take it off, his own cheeks burning once the fabric fell somewhere on the floor. Your eyes widened, taking in his figure, his golden-bronzed skin glowing in the library’s low lighting. He wasn’t precisely toned, but his body was admirable, making your gaze linger for much longer than it should have. 

The kisses became more frantic, desperate. While a shy hand palmed him over the fabric of his pants, a not–so–shy one sneaked behind your back to unclasp your bra, his cool hands covering the skin of your breasts once the fabric fell to the rug, sending shivers down your spine as he kneaded the sensitive skin and rolled your nipples with his index and middle finger, small moans rolling off your lips. You couldn’t believe you were doing this to Choi fucking Jongho, the man you swore to never see with eyes that held something other than hatred, and in the fucking library. You just hoped that there weren’t cameras. 

Most of the clothes were quickly discarded, and now you had your legs wrapped around Jongho’s waist, his hands splayed on your thighs as his lips swallowed yours in a dizzying kiss, your hips rolling every so often, your core, only now covered by your panties, meeting the tip of his cock, still covered by the fabric of his boxers. 

Soft mewls and whines rolled off your lips as the friction became overbearing, feeling the all-too-familiar coil in your belly tighten, “Jjong, p-please.” You almost didn’t recognize your voice as you begged, Jongho looking at you with a fucking smirk curling his lips as he took a step forward, your back meeting the cold wood of the bookshelf. One of his hands snaked down between your bodies to be able to pull his boxers down, just enough to free his cock, the tip hitting your clothed core in a way that had you feeling like a livewire. You looked down and—

What. The. Fuck. 

What an absolute fucking of a monster cock did he have. Not only was it above average, but it was thick. So fucking thick that you were almost certain he was going to split you in two, but your mind was far too gone to care. 

Jongho’s lips curled in a full-on grin, “You’re staring.” 

“You’re fucking huge.” 

“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” He let out a small giggle while pulling your panties to the side, rubbing his fat cock across your folds, making you whine. Asshole. 

He gathered enough slick onto his shaft to push inside slowly, a cry leaving your lips as you felt the stretch, his cock quite literally splitting you into two. “You’re a good girl. You can take it, right, sunshine?” The nickname you had come to despise in your daily life made you clench around him, forcing him inside just a little bit more, pulling a groan out of him. 

“Sh-ut the fuck up.” A broken cry came out as he continued pushing inside, your head falling back and leaning into the old wooden shelf. He popped a brow at you, rolling his hips a little bit more, making you moan loudly. 

“Such a good girl and such a filthy mouth.” He tutted as his hips continued rolling, sliding in and out slowly. He wasn’t even all the way in yet, and you already felt like you were about to explode. 

He bottomed out, and a loud groan rumbled deep in his chest, a cry reverberating through your vocal cords as you felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix in a way that had you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids. 

“J-Jongho…fuck. Move,” you moaned, eyebrows knitted in pleasure as you tried rolling your hips into him. Head too far gone to think about what you were doing. 

“Look at you, taking my cock so good after telling everyone you hate me.” He fucking cooed, and you clenched around his cock. He began pulling out as much as he could while still holding you up in his arms, and he slammed back into you.g

Your moans quickly filled the quiet, empty library. The obscene sounds reverberated in the wide space as Jongho continued slamming into you, wet, slopping sounds reaching your ears as you held on to the bookshelf for dear fucking life. 

Jongho felt the muscles in his thighs on fire, and the position was becoming unbearable. Much to your dismay, he pulled out, and you whined, your breathing shallow as he steadied you on the floor, your knees buckled, your stance stumbling as your feet touched the rug beneath them. “What—” 

“Lie down.” He instructed, and you popped a brow, obeying reluctantly. So picky, is what you thought, but all complaints died on your throat as he slammed into you the moment your back was touching the rug. His cock kissed the tip of your cervix, the delicious stretch making you dizzy in no time. Your belly tensed, feeling him deep in your womb as his balls slapped against the skin of your ass. 

“Jong-ho, ngh— fuck…” You babbled, tears rimming your eyes as his hips snapped inside you mercilessly. He leaned down, the angle pushing his cock impossibly deeper as he took one of your tits in his mouth, suckling your hardened bud, nipping occasionally at the soft skin that surrounded it. You heard his low groans of pleasure, moaning as he rammed into you. 

One of his hands snaked down between your bodies, circling your clit in rhythm with his thrusts, “Cum for me, sunshine. Cum ‘round my cock.” He popped off the sensitive skin of your chest with a wet pop!. His tone was laced with lust, your walls constricted around him, making him drop his head on your shoulder. Your fingers wrapped around his hair, black, unruly strands pointing in all directions, while some of them stuck to his forehead, a soft sheen of sweat covering you both, loud moans, groans, and babbles filled the space, both of you clearly enjoying the moment. 

Your limbs were wrapped around Jongho’s as your lips crashed onto his, and your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, legs tightening around his thighs, fingers pulling at his roots, and the cry of his name dying on his lips. His rhythm grew sloppy, frantic as he looked for his own release, the hand that was circling your clit coming up to rest beside your head, holding him up. Your lips swallowed his punched-out groan as he filled you up, thick, warm ropes of cum painting your insides without a care in the world. 

Post-nut clarity hit you like a bitch. After Jongho slipped out of you and rolled to your side, breathing shallow as he stared at the ceiling, your heartbeat started thrumming in your ears. The haziness dissipated quickly as if a cold water bucket had been poured over you the second your orgasm subsided. 

You had sex with Choi Jongho. 

You sat up quickly, blood rushing to your head and making you feel slightly dizzy. Your hands splayed on the floor behind you, holding you upright as you caught your breath. You looked over your shoulder, seeing Jongho with his eyes closed as he brought a hand to his chest, trying to calm his own breathing. Your eyes danced over his body, admiring the way his honey-skin, lightly covered in sweat, shone in the dim lighting. You willed yourself to look away before your gaze dared to trail any lower. 

You had sex with Choi Jongho. On the school's library. 

You began gathering your clothes, quickly getting your panties that had been hastily discarded while you changed positions and pulling them up your legs, grimacing at the sticky feeling between them, quickly pulling your shirt over your head, and standing up, catching Jongho's attention, who opened his eyes to see you half-clothed as you rushed through the hallway looking for the rest of your things. 

“What is it?” He asked while popping a brow, confused. 

“What? You expected me to lie down and cuddle with you after fucking in the library?” You cocked a brow of your own, finding your pants and sliding them up your legs, prompting Jongho to begin dressing himself as well. 

“You can't be serious.” He scoffed as he watched you begin to gather the papers that had fallen forgotten on the floor as he slid up and buttoned his pants. “Are you just going to fucking leave? That's what you do best, right?” He bit out, picking his shirt up from the rug and putting it on. 

Your head turned so fast you swore you gave yourself whiplash. “What's that supposed to mean?” Your brows knotted, offended as you continued half-assedly gathering the papers, only this time your focus was fully on Jongho. 

“You just leave and act as if nothing happened, then go around telling everybody you hate me.” He huffed as he spoke matter-of-factly, crouching down to pick up his thick-rimmed glasses that had been thrown onto the floor at one point.

The sound that came out of you sounded more like a laugh than a scoff, and your head shook from side to side as if what he had said was the most ridiculous thing ever. “You act as if it wasn't your fucking fault that whatever we had broke.” 

“What does that even mean!” He knelt beside you, tone rising as his frustration bottled up again, close to exploding. 

“You think I don't know what you said to Soobin and Yeojun at that fuckass party over at TXT last semester?” Your voice rose too, bouncing off the walls of the empty hallways filled with books. 

“Wha–” 

“I heard you. Telling them you were only trying to get me to your bed and that I was already halfway there.” You bit out, turning your attention back to the papers on the floor, biting the inside of your cheek to avoid the tears pooling in your eyes. 

Now it was Jongho’s turn to feel as if a cold bucket of water had been dumped on him. Heat rose all the way to his ears, crimson covering his cheeks as his head cowered, teeth clamping over the inside of his cheek at your words. You weren't exactly right, but you also weren't wrong. 

“It didn't happen like that.” If the silence of both of you hadn't filled the space, his words would have probably gone unheard, given how low his voice came out. “But I was an idiot, I was so invested in getting into that fucking frat that I let those two idiots talk shit about you, and I didn't do anything to stop it because I thought no one was hearing.” Your eyes met his, and his gaze softened at the sight of your teary eyes and quivering lower lip. 

“I'm so so fucking sorry.” He said your name as his head fell forward, the sound of your own name out of his mouth surprising you. “Even if no one was around to hear, I should have said something.” He wasn't excusing himself; you could actually see how fucking sorry he was, and your heart ached. “If I could take it back and never have you hate me, I would do it in a heartbeat.” His words, followed by your name, made a stray tear run down your cheek, a small sniffle making him lift his head, his own eyes teary as he met your gaze. 

“I don't know if I can forgive you.” Your voice came out shaky, broken as another tear fell down your cheek. “Yet.” Jongho's brows furrowed in confusion. “I never really stopped liking you. I was just too hurt to want to do anything with you.” You explained with a soft blush in your cheeks. 

“I'll fix it.” He declared, pushing his glasses up into his hair and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “We just fucked on the library's floor for fuck’s sake, I'm not just letting you go.” 

Maybe. Maybe you didn't hate Choi Jongho as much as you thought.  As if you would have ever thought things would ever go like this.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ 

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“Good afternoon, Aurora County! It seems that our region has been hit with an unexpected storm. Get your umbrellas and raincoats out, everyone—especially if you're in the KQ University area—we’ll be in for a very wet evening,” came the voice of the news anchor from the local channel. It was broadcast on the small flatscreen hoisted up in the corner of the corridor behind you. He sounded all-too jolly for the current state of your world.

You let the front door to the sociology building slam shut behind you—not before it whipped one last gust of air conditioning at your back—leaving you to the storm, the heat, and your own devices. How the hell were you supposed to walk home in this?

The day had commenced rather uneventfully, as most mundane days in the middle of the week did. Spring quarter was in full swing with midterms creeping up faster than you could run out of this obscene amount of rain.

You racked your brain for any friends with a car who might have still been on campus. There was a decent chance there was someone around who could give you a ride back to the house, right?

BEEP BEEP!

You nearly flew out of your skin at the sound of a car honk going off down the steps from where you stood. In this small back street on campus, there weren't many cars that passed by who weren't instructors or TAs.

You squinted out into the heavy downpour as the passenger window to the silver sedan rolled down. “Oy! Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna let me drown before you get in here?”

“Wooyoung?” you shouted back, disbelief stark on your face. If he was in the passenger seat, then who was…

There was a blur of dark hair behind Wooyoung's head in the driver's seat, and you cursed under your breath. It didn't matter; all that mattered was that you got out of this rain. Any friend of Wooyoung's was a friend of yours.

You made a mad dash down the stairs and out to the street with your hand shielding your eyes and your head ducked to keep from being blinded by the fat splotches of rain. You crashed into the backseat of the car, hair slightly damp, skin a little damper. The AC was blasting from the front vents, blowing back a mixture of Wooyoung's signature oak and vanilla-bourbon, as well as a hint of something softer and sweet from the driver's side. AOA's Miniskirt shimmied out from the speakers under the loud accompaniment of the rain drumming overhead as you clocked the C-3PO Lego figurine on the dash.

“Hey, thanks,” you exhaled out sharply as you maneuvered around to deposit your backpack at your feet and get yourself strapped into the seat. Your eyes went to the driver's side, eyeing the dark hair at the back of his head. He looked familiar—

“If you don't buckle your seatbelt in ten seconds, the car will start yelling at you,” drawled a voice that made your stomach drop.

Swiftly, that realization shifted into a hot flash of annoyance, one that made your nose wrinkle and the corner of your mouth dig into your cheek with disdain. The C-3PO made sense all of a sudden. “Oh,” you droned as your seatbelt clicked into place, “it's you.”

Wooyoung's head hit the back of his seat with a loud groan. “Please, God.”

“The rain is waiting for you if you'd prefer that to me,” Park Seonghwa said to you through the sharp slant of his eyes in the rear view mirror. You didn't need to see his face to hear the saccharinity lacing his words like venom. “It wasn't my idea to—”

“Enough!” Wooyoung screeched, fingers digging into his hair. “You two are so loud sometimes, and that's coming from me!”

You folded your arms over your chest in the manner of a petulant child. You had been in the backseat of Seonghwa's car a total of five times—and you would attest to everyone you knew that it was at least somewhat unwilling each time.

“Sorry,” both you and Seonghwa grumbled under your breaths. At this rate, you knew how annoying yours and Seonghwa's pettiness could be to your friends. It was something that couldn't be helped, even at the ripe age of twenty-something—some things just could not be forgotten. And some people were just meant to ruin your day.

Wooyoung loosened a sigh from his breath that sounded so akin to your mother's. “Yeah, yeah. Let's go, I'm hungry.”

Seonghwa tugged the car into drive and the wheels peeled away from the curbside.

The drive from campus to where your house was located wasn't a long one by any means. Walking took far longer than driving, and if it wasn't raining like the world was ending, you wouldn't have minded the walk. You stared out the window to your right, watching the university district pass by behind a curtain of raindrops chasing one another down the glass pane.

“So I'm guessing this means the car wash fundraiser is gonna be cancelled,” Wooyoung piped up after the last song ended. The synthesizer of the next song began to drift out from the speakers.

You turned to look at the back of his head in front of you. “Oh shit, you're totally right,” you said. “I mean, the rain kind of beat us to it.”

There was a click of a tongue from the driver's seat. “Sucks,” he muttered. “I was looking forward to raking in more cash than you, Ln.”

You didn't bother to hold back a roll of your eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Park,” you shot back. A spare raindrop rolled down from your hairline, and you reached up to swipe it away just as it dribbled down the side of your face. When you glanced up to meet Seonghwa's eyes in the rearview mirror, he darted back to look out the front windshield, as if burned by the eye contact—or from being caught.

“Aish,” Wooyoung muttered. “I think we all know I'm the moneymaker of our society.”

A snort fell from your lips, and Wooyoung let out a squawk of indignation. “What was that?” He twisted around in his seat, hands clutching the back of the headrest as he scowled back at you. “Say it to my face, Ln.”

You grinned. “Yeesh, so much of my last name today. You know you boys would have lost, right?”

The three of you had all been a part of the same pre-health student society since the beginning of your college careers. In kind, that meant that you also orbited similar social circles. You and Seonghwa had known each other the longest out of everyone here, having hailed from the same high school, the same community, and the same goddamn neighborhood block. (The universe had it out for you, truly.)

As the end of the school year was rolling around, your society was due for its standard round of fundraising. The idea that the leadership came up with before Spring Break had been that of a car wash fundraiser in bathing suits, and a competition between whether the guys or the girls could raise more money. One could always count on the male gaze, right? But now that this unexpected and early summer storm hit your county this week, it was doubtful that the fundraiser would still go on.

You could hear Wooyoung rolling his eyes through his voice. “I guess leadership is gonna pivot to that speed dating idea then, huh?”

“Changing the subject now, are we?”

“Shut up!”

Your mood remained afloat the entire rest of the drive.

When the car began to slow as it neared the apartment complex Wooyoung lived in, you began to gather your things along with him. The rain had yet to let up, but your educated guess told you that you could make it down the street without your backpack flooding.

Seonghwa slid into an empty space along the front curbside, and Wooyoung was already hollering his gratitude, shoulder shoving his door open.

“Hey, where are you going?”

You stopped just before you opened your own door, your backpack half on and making you sit at an awkward angle. You turned slightly toward the man who had spoken up and met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I'm leaving?” you replied.

His eyebrows furrowed. “But you don't live here.”

Even Wooyoung stalled outside the car as the rain pummeled the top of his hood. “Yeah, Yn, you don't live here—”

“Wooyoung, can you please close the door before half the car gets wet” —SLAM— “thank you.” Seonghwa saluted to his friend through the passenger window as Wooyoung shouted something unintelligible from outside. The rain made it impossible to hear him, but he didn't wait to repeat himself, and ducked his head while sprinting for the apartment door.

The driver returned his attention to the front. “I'm driving you to your house,” he said, and signalled to get out onto the street again.

“You don't have to do that. Your place is, like, the opposite direction—”

“It's just a block away,” he countered. “Do you not want to be dropped off right outside?”

You deflated slightly. You definitely did, but was it not inconvenient to drive further up the street when his own living situation was back the way you just came? You could understand stopping at Wooyoung's apartment because it was in the middle, but enduring not one, but two U-turns in the congested, stormy university streets was not something you were wishing on anyone. Even Park Seonghwa.

He took your hesitation as your answer. “That's what I thought.”

Whatever. If he wanted to drive the extra block, the extra two U-turns, and spend the extra time in the congested rain with people who didn't know how to drive, then that was his prerogative.

The car was silent for the next three minutes, barring the radio being played at a low volume. Just as he said he would, Seonghwa pulled his car right up into the driveway of the house you shared with six other girls.

He let the engine stall as you maneuvered your second backpack strap over your shoulder. “Thanks,” you said quietly, hand lingering on the door handle.

Seonghwa carded a hand through his hair absentmindedly. “Yeah, sure. I'll see you at Trivia Night then, I guess.”

“See you when I wipe the floor with you again, you mean?” you asked as you climbed out of the car, holding an arm over your head.

“Close my goddamn door, Yn—”

Your laughter was interrupted by the slamming of his backseat door and muted by the downpour.

Trivia Night was held every Thursday evening in the basement of the anthropology building. It was the only classroom available at your required hours equipped for all of the society's needs; plus, its projector was still in working condition and it certainly beat the chemistry laboratory building's No Eating policy.

As a handful of the society's members gathered once again, it was beneath the dense storm clouds of the region's recent summer-like showers. This evening's theme was Homeostasis, an apt topic to study when the temperatures lately were far greater than any this city had ever endured in mid-April. When the sky wasn't unleashing the floodgates of Hell over KQ University, it was inflicting a diabolically humid atmosphere.

“Do I really need to know the technical term for your hair standing erect?” Choi San groaned as he waved a hand at the screen, while the traumatic rhythm of the Kahoot theme song distressed everyone in the room.

Society President, exhausted fourth-year, and medical school-hopeful Kang Seulgi had her boots propped up on the desk at the front, crossed at the ankles. She tossed a chip into her mouth. “Hey,” she said and pointed at him, “don't come cryin’ to me when you see 'piloerection’ on your MCAT and you can't remember why it's relevant.”

From the back row of the desks, Song Mingi hollered out, “Can we switch to physics yet?”

A wave of groans swept through the room in a unanimous objection. The third-year math major widened his eyes at the reaction to his words, expression screaming, 'What'd I do?’ His desk neighbor and best friend, Jeong Yunho, wheezed and slapped a hand onto Mingi's shoulder.

“The only person who actually prefers the physics questions is you, Mingi,” Seonghwa teased from where he sat a few desks to your left. As the only person who had ever ventured past calculus, Mingi was, in turn, the only person in the room who favored math-based topics and was also good at them.

Mingi shrugged his shoulders helplessly and gesticulated wildly between Seonghwa and you. “I can't help that you and Yn suck at math.”

You whirled around in your chair. “Hey! Why am I being pulled into this?” you asked, mouth agape.

“Because you and Hwa have been neck-and-neck for first place for the past twenty questions!”

“It's only 'cause I'm letting her catch up,” came Seonghwa's flippant reply, feigning boredom as he glanced down at his phone screen.

Your head snapped over him so fast, you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “Oh, you're letting me catch up?”

He met your gaze like a challenge, mouth curling into the kind of smirk that made your heart pump (with absolute malice, of course). “I said what I said.”

“Alright.” Kim Hongjoong clapped his hands from the seat beside Seonghwa while sending his own friend a pointed look. “Seulgi, if you'd please just—let’s move on.”

Seulgi blinked, her chip-equipped hand freezing mid-air. “My show was just getting started.”

“You're so messy,” snorted Soyeon as she slapped a palm over her mouth. She turned to you and placed a placating hand on your arm. “Sorry, babe.”

Your mouth pursed together in an unamused pout, but you were far from being actually offended. Any agitation you might have felt would only be aimed at the guy a few desks down from yours who had yet to wipe that audacious smirk off his face. As your friend and housemate Ronnie liked to remind you, sometimes it felt as if you and Seonghwa bickered like cats for fun. You could not disagree more; the pettiness between you was far more serious than you were proud enough to admit.

Seulgi smiled to herself and shook her head, then clicked something on her keyboard. “Oh, before we move on, I thought we'd take a brief commercial break and talk about our upcoming fundraiser.” She muted the Kahoot theme, and the entire room seemed to deflate, all tension seeping out of your postures.

The tab switched to the one on the far left, revealing a PNG of a graphic copy-and-pasted into a document. You leaned back in your seat, loosely folding your arms over your stomach, as you picked out the words “bracelet-making” and “matchmaking.” The idea was not something you had seen or heard of on campus yet, and you found yourself nodding absentmindedly. Bracelet-making was cute.

“Leadership has decided,” said Seulgi as she wiggled her salty fingers at the screen, “that since the weather has so graciously ruined our plans for this weekend, we would move onto phase two of our fundraising and postpone the car wash idea.”

“So we're not going forth with the speed dating thing?” Wooyoung piped up from somewhere near San, Yeosang, and Jongho's seats.

Madam President shook her head. “Nah. Well, we're just not advertising it as speed dating; it's more like 'friendship matching’ and making friendship bracelets. The student association doesn't like the idea of actual matchmaking for some reason. We'll just be pairing everyone who decides to participate through this” —she scrolled down to highlight a hyperlink— “form. Anyone can join for an entry fee of eight dollars, which includes all of the bracelet-making materials, too.”

Lee Chaeryeong lifted her hand slightly to catch Seulgi's attention. “And this is not happening this weekend, right?”

“No, it'd be too fast of a turnaround, so it'll be hosted two weeks out. Any other questions?”

“What’re your pairing criteria?” Seonghwa posed.

Seulgi shrugged. “That's for me to know and you to never find out. And Hongjoong is sworn to secrecy, so don't even try.”

You chuckled to yourself, glancing over in the pair's direction. Hongjoong was shaking his head and smiling as Seonghwa nudged him in a joking attempt to coax an answer out of him.

When there were no more questions for the moment, Seulgi nodded her head and switched back to the Kahoot host screen. “Remember to repost the announcement on your Instagram stories, or I will make you suffer during our next Trivia Night. Okay! Next question…”

The remainder of Trivia Night went as anyone could predict: you and Seonghwa tied for first place. No one was surprised.

As members began to trickle out of the room following adjournment, it left only a select few. Soyeon, Seulgi, Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho remained; all five of whom surrounded the instructor's desk at the front of the room that Seulgi occupied to share her bag of chips.

Seulgi gestured at Soyeon with a vague wave of her chip. “I’m surprised you didn't go home with Yn. Don't you guys share a house?”

“Yeah, but my friend Miyeon's got this rehearsal she's wrapping up soon,” said Soyeon, “so I told Yn to go back before me since she has some things to do.”

“Oh, wait. Don’t you guys have that biochem exam coming up?” Jongho chimed in.

Those around him, barring Seulgi, groaned altogether and Jongho snickered. Though most of the third-years in the society were actively enrolled in a biochemistry course, not all of you were in the same section. You, Soyeon, and Seonghwa were in an earlier section, while everyone else had a later section. Both sections were taught by the same professor, though, so both sections’ pain was quite similar.

“Don't remind me,” Yunho grunted and he slipped another chip past his lips. “That’s what I'll be working on all weekend now that we don't have the car wash fundraiser.”

“Speaking of,” Mingi piped up, nodding to Seulgi, “how are you planning to make pairs for the bracelet-making thing?”

The president narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head. “Just because you brought me muffins last week, Song Mingi, does not mean I'm gonna let you pull anything out of me.”

“Okay, but” —Yunho raised his palm, tongue jammed between his grin— “can you at least tell us if you're gonna put Yn and Seonghwa together?”

“So you want whoever's near them to suffer?” Jongho asked incredulously.

Yunho's smile only widened. He lifted both hands now in a gesture. “C'mon! I can't be the only one tired of their back-and-forth. They can't really hate each other. Soyeon” —he shot a finger gun her way, catching the girl mid-chip— “you have to know something about this. You live with Yn.”

Soyeon finished chewing her bite, her expression screwing up into something both contemplative and frankly, disturbed. “I mean, I don't know what you expect me to say…”

“Well, does she bring him up a lot? Because I feel like Hwa definitely brings her up in conversations.” Anyone who was close to Seonghwa could name at least five instances where the man in question spontaneously inserted your name into the conversation. Outsiders who were unfamiliar with your dynamic would think too naively that he was talking about someone he didn't see as his academic rival since the goddamn third grade. (Yunho still shook his head at that. And they called him Mr. Overcompetitive?)

“Yes, but it's to, y'know, complain about him!”

Jongho cocked his head to the side. “We're not counting that then?”

Both Seulgi and Soyeon replied at once, “It's complicated.” They whipped their heads around to look at each other, then bursted out laughing.

The boys present could only blink at them.

“Okay, okay,” Soyeon said through a last huff of laughter, “I do have to admit that there's no way she engages in these verbal sparring matches all the time with him for fun. Maybe I'm delusional, but she… looks at him.”

Yunho thumped his fist against the desk. “So does he! Look at her, I mean.”

“Third grade until now is a long time for a slow burn arc,” Seulgi mused.

“It's about goddamn time though.”

Soyeon waved her hands around to stop the conversation. “Now wait a minute, I'm not saying that she has feelings for him—”

Yunho grinned. “You're not,” he agreed, “but we're just putting two and two together. If you think about it, if they actually just liked each other, wouldn't that make a lot of sense? All the bickering is just foreplay!”

“Good grief.”

“I'm just saying!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “I think Seulgi should pair them up for the event, so they'll finally realize that the only tension between them is—”

Soyeon put a hand to her brow. “Don't say what I think you're gonna say.”

“I think they need to make out and get it over with.”

“If they can get over their massive egos first,” Mingi pointed out unenthusiastically.

From her president's chair, Seulgi sucked the remaining salt and crumbs off her thumb and forefinger in deep contemplation. Since the moment you and Seonghwa set foot in this society, there was a feeling prodding at the back of her mind about the two of you; one might call it a hunch, a sixth sense. Maybe you claimed to hate each other's guts, but maybe there was a chance to smooth out that wrinkle and get you both to shut up.

There was another smile curling onto Yunho's face as he regarded her from across the desk. “You have a plan,” he said. It wasn't a question.

Seulgi merely shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

When you were first entering into university—and even when you were still in high school—people’s favorite fearmongering tactic when you expressed your desire to go into medicine was that organic chemistry would suck the life right out of you. Truly, you wondered if the fear they ingrained in you was what made you ace the series last year, or maybe if it was just because Park Seonghwa was in your class.

You were beginning to suspect that the latter was the case, considering biochemistry was not even half as bad as you were expecting it to be.

“Your flashcards must be magic or something,” Soyeon grumbled beside you as she peered over your shoulder at the Quizlet deck you flipped through. The two of you were amongst the school of other students in your biochemistry course loitering outside the examination hall, cramming last minute knowledge into your already-packed craniums. iPads, textbooks, and notebooks were splayed out and poured over; you were certain someone had even brought a tea light to pray over.

You finished the deck you were on, drumming your fingers along the seam of your pants to give your nervous energy somewhere to go. “They're not magic; I just become a hermit when exam weeks come around,” you replied. None of this information came natural to you, and the curve of your spine could attest to the amount of hours you spent hunched over your desk, grinding notes and problem sets.

Soyeon hummed, unconvinced, to herself. She had her own notes she was scrolling through on her tablet, a worried furrow between her brows. “Is it weird that I have a bad feeling about this exam?”

Your stomach twisted at just those words. “No, I feel it too,” you muttered. You shivered then, as if an evil breeze just blew against your neck.

Your eyes coincidentally wandered elsewhere in the building lobby and met the gaze of a familiar opponent.

“Nope,” you drawled as the man approached where you and Soyeon lingered, “it's just Seonghwa.”

Soyeon muffled a laugh by squeezing her lips together and she gave your shoulder a light shove. “You're so petty, oh my god.”

Seonghwa lifted one perfect brow when he drew closer, lowering his headphones to hang them around his neck. “Should I even hazard a guess at what you just said about me?” he asked you directly, understanding full well that Soyeon was not the culprit.

You wrinkled your nose at him. “I have faith that you know.”

Soyeon coughed loudly. “So, Hwa, how're we feeling about this midterm?”

A sigh fell from his mouth and it was a haggard sound that you could relate with down to your exhausted bones. He raked a hand through his hair, eyes flitting to you before going back to Soyeon. “It's… hit or miss, I think,” he said, almost as if he were picking the words carefully.

“That's how we're feeling, too,” you added in with an absent-minded bob of your head. “Dr. Chung has been in a bad mood lately.” This statement was paired with a grimace while you hissed through your teeth.

“I hear you've been locking in hours at Quill all weekend, Ln.”

Quill was the colloquial name of KQ University's largest library, a frequent haunt of students during Finals Week because it was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It had also practically become like your third home over the last few years of your undergraduate career. Truly, that reading room had seen far too much of you. “Are you asking around about me, Park?” you queried.

He flashed you a wry smile. “Don't flatter yourself,” he quipped. “Everything I learn about you is against my will.”

“But you still listen to it, right?”

“Know thy enemy,” he replied simply.

(Soyeon observed the two of you with a new set of eyes. After the conversation shared between five members of the Yn and Seonghwa Need to Get Over Themselves Club, she hated to admit that she was actually seeing Yunho's point—and she hated to admit when a man had a point. There was always this inkling wriggling at the back of her mind that there must have been something deeper between you two, but she knew what it was like to not be able to stand the sight of someone.

The difference in this case was that, as much as you both claimed you loathed the sight of one another, you could not keep your eyes off each other.)

Soyeon leaned her elbow onto your shoulder and flashed the screen of her tablet at the both of you. As much as she was fascinated by this little observational study, there was an exam she needed to pass. “Can we go over glycolysis again? We have five minutes before they let us into the room.”

You and Seonghwa snapped out of your previous conversation. “Shit,” you muttered while pocketing your phone, “yeah, let's go over it.”

Five minutes later, the doors to the Gwang-Yin Hall opened to allow the flood of students into its bowels. The mass shuffled into the spacious room in an unorderly fashion, a mass of nervous jitters and panic that would eventually tighten into a yarn ball only unwoundable by one's graduation date. Even then, the stress would only continue to mount rather than vanish.

All one could do was trudge on.

Two hours later, your hand was cramping and the digits on the clock projected upon the screen were getting closer and closer to zero. Your knee shook under the tiny wooden desk, palms and fingers sweating as you scanned through your answers and fixed one last response.

“Time! Pencils and pens down.”

A mishmash of curses and thumps rattled throughout the lecture hall. You heard sighs and coughs and calculators slam shut (which was weird because you didn't need a calculator on this exam); paper fluttered as exams were passed to the ends of rows and TAs came by to sweep them up. The professor was yelling at someone to stop writing, but you were already folding the desktop between the seats and shuffling out of the row.

Your brain hurt, fuck.

As you made your way toward the exit, your peers were already finding their friends and exchanging answers. This was arguably worse than the exam itself. You tried not to listen to them—what if your answers were different? What if the answer you got wasn't even in the same ballpark?

Exhaustion weighed down on your body from all the stress you'd accumulated over this past week and weekend. You raised your head to let your eyes surf through the crowd. Where was Soyeon…

Your eyes did not snag on Soyeon, but they did catch the back of a familiar head. He was closer to the exit than you were, and you maneuvered through the masses to reach him.

“Yo” —you appeared at Park Seonghwa's side just as you both shoved out into the disgusting and muggy April morning.

He sent you a look, eyebrows pursed in surprise. “Yo,” he said back.

“Thoughts?”

Seonghwa sucked in a breath that sounded very much like a hiss. “Hit or miss, as I said,” he drawled. “I'm not in the mood to compare answers though, Ln.”

“Me neither. I kind of need caffeine though,” you thought aloud. It was only the beginning of the day, after all. You still had to get through a lab and one more lecture before you were due at the university hospital for a volunteer shift.

“That sounds… super good right now actually.” Seonghwa's eyes went from you to the phone in his hand. “Where are you headed?”

“Physics lab,” you grunted with a scrunched-up nose.

His expression shifted. “Oh,” he said. “The wave simulator one?”

“Yeah, the one they made us learn beginner Python for.”

“It's easy,” he told you with a flick of his wrist. “My group finished early and left with like, an hour to spare.”

You cocked a brow at him. “Easy for you to say. You went to that Comp-Sci camp in high school every summer.” You didn't know what inside you suddenly thought to speak the words in your head, but they were out in the open now. Maybe you really were tired—in what reality did you even suggest that he was better than you at something?

Seonghwa made a sound that was suspiciously akin to a laugh. Disbelief filled his face; he shifted a foot toward you. “You remember I went to fuckass Comp-Sci camp?”

“Don't get ahead of yourself,” you quipped, squinting one eye at him. Maybe you should not have said that, but there were worse places to be stuck. “My mom just would not shut up about it.” Just like how she would not shut up about how much better Seonghwa was doing in his academics, and in general. The comparisons had gotten so out of hand when you were kids.

He bit his cheek. “Don’t worry, Ln, my mom wouldn't shut up about how you tutored first graders after school everyday. If that makes you feel better.”

Your mouth curved into a frown, albeit incredulously. How much did your mom tell his mom? Neither you nor Seonghwa asked to be pitted against each other, but the dynamic had been ingrained in the two of you like a bad habit, and bad habits died hard. “It's whatever,” was all you managed to say. You shouldn't have brought it up.

Seonghwa looked as if he was going to say something. His mouth opened, then snapped shut, his mind changed. “Yeah, it's whatever.”

In seventh grade, Seonghwa's bike broke down along one of the worn trails behind the school that would take him toward the block you both lived on. The situation ended up with bloodied and scraped-up knees, and an equally bloodied and scraped-up ego, because you had watched it happen in real time.

Middle schoolers were not known for their empathy, but you saw the watery silver lining his eyes as he angrily shoved himself to his feet, tugging his bike along with him. He could barely step without his legs trembling.

Maybe your mom had just reminded you that he won the science fair again, but it didn't exactly feel right to abandon him on this trail, of all places. You slowed your bike to a stop next to him and met his glare with defiance.

“Just leave me alone.”

“So you don't want a ride home?”

He scoffed. “Not from you. I don't need help.”

You could have growled with all of that middle school girl rage. “Get on the dang bike, Seonghwa. You're bleeding.”

He glanced down at his shins. Dark red streamed from the open wounds as if he'd just survived some chainsaw murderer, not Mother Nature from the height of a bike. Seonghwa glanced back over at you on your bike, the foot bars on the back wheel. He couldn't meet your eyes as he abandoned his vehicle on the path and propped one foot onto the corresponding bar of yours. “If I hear you talking about this at school—”

“Yeah, whatever,” you interjected, rolling your eyes. His fingers dug into your shoulders and you felt his weight press down on the wheels. You propelled your foot off the dirt trail and pumped your legs to make it up the small hill ahead. He could do his worst for all you cared.

“Good afternoon, Aurora County! It looks like we're in for another stormy week. Forecast says to expect showers through to the weekend with highs of about 86 degrees Fahrenheit—” SLAM.

You brought an umbrella to your sociology lecture this time.

The accessory popped out like a parachute as you launched it above your head, wincing as raindrops went flying in all directions. The outside world remained a living sauna—hot and wet and miserable. Nobody asked for this.

You paused to select a playlist to listen to, then commenced what you expected would be a long trek in the rain. Wednesdays were usually what you considered your break days; they acted as somewhat of a pause during the middle of the week to give you a moment to breathe. In the morning, you had a very relaxed bioethics seminar, and in the afternoon, it was your sociology lecture. There was a reason you loved Wednesdays—

BEEP BEEP!

Déjà vu washed over you like rainwater being splattered by a car racing past. The familiar silver sedan rolling up next to you in the street sealed the deal.

Park Seonghwa lowered the passenger side window only partially. “You need a ride?”

“Are you purposefully driving down this way or…?” This week and the week before were the only times you ever saw him drive on this road. What class did he even have before this?

“The main road that gets to North campus is closed for reconstruction, remember? They roped it off two weeks ago.” He deadpanned at you, unamused. “Of course, I'm driving this way on purpose.”

You made a face at him. “You don't have to be chivalrous.”

“So that's a no?”

“I don't need a ride from you.” As if it would help your case, you waved your hand up at your umbrella with a flourish. “I have coverage.”

His expression somehow seemed to flatten further. “Get in the car, Yn.”

Your reputation as a Seonghwa hater was suddenly in danger if you got into this car. You had an umbrella, good tunes, and a free afternoon. It was Wednesday, a good day.

You got in the car.

“This could be considered kidnapping,” you hummed with no real malice as you wrestled your umbrella into its closed position, then shut the door.

Alright, Drama Queen. He rolled his eyes and pulled the car forward. “I regret everything.”

As soon as you settled properly into the seat, you realized where exactly you found yourself. The AC was blowing a cool and comfortable breeze at you, rustling up the smell of his flowery-coffee cologne. The song playing on low from the stereo was one that settled on the tip of your tongue, a name you could only remember when you saw its title on the navigation screen. And then there was that damned C-3PO Lego figurine stuck to the dash.

Seonghwa was less than a foot away from you with only the center console separating you. The two of you have sat closer to one another—there was that spelling bee tournament in third grade, that school assembly in sixth grade, that Science Olympiad competition in tenth—but all of those had been assigned. This was something you did on your own, just as you had run after him post-exam yesterday, just as he had walked up to you and Soyeon pre-exam.

You fiddled around on your phone and tucked your earbuds into your backpack, antsy to forget where you were and the choices you'd made.

He coughed. “So,” he said, dragging out the vowel, “how was the physics lab yesterday?”

There was a sudden spike of anxiety in your chest from the question, even though the lab itself had gone pretty okay yesterday. It was as if your body was gearing up for another cat fight on its own, as it seemed to do frequently around him. “Fine,” you said. “I really don't know why they made us do a whole workshop for learning Python, though, when all we did was change two numbers around.”

“Yeah,” he chimed in with a sigh, carding a hand through his hair as he made a turn, “me neither. It was helpful if you wanted to make more advanced adjustments though.”

“Oh.” You couldn't help but think: how much more was Seonghwa learning or gaining from each lab because he had a slightly better foundation than you did in code? There would undoubtedly be future lab situations where you would need to know some kind of code in more depth, but… You dashed the thought away; you could look into an online course later. It would be fine. “You have your physics midterm next week, too, right?”

He grunted, the corner of his mouth pressing into his cheek. “Unfortunately. You?”

“Same.” You glanced out the passenger side window. “Seulgi's probably gonna give into Mingi's demands tomorrow night—for physics questions, I mean.”

Seonghwa chuckled something low. “Yeah,” he agreed with a grimace, “a nice reminder of what we're in for. Maybe this time, I'll even let you beat me.”

You arched a brow at him, unimpressed. “You'll be so low on the rankings tomorrow, you'll never forget what gravity feels like.” A bold statement from someone who could barely punch the right buttons on her calculator. Then again, while Seonghwa went to Computer Science camp, it didn't necessarily mean he was good at math… or computer science. He just knew slightly more than you.

(Maybe it was time to actually look into coding classes.)

“Speaking of gravity.”

Curious, you lifted your head to look at him.

His eyes darted off the road briefly to meet your gaze, before settling on the rain-slicked streets, the car's wipers swishing back and forth over the windshield. “My mom keeps asking about you,” he said, the words coming out terse as if he had to rip them out of his vocal cords.

What did that have to do with gravity?

“Ah,” you vocalized. His mom asks about you, too? You didn't necessarily find yourself in too many situations like this—situations wherein you had time for a full-length conversation. Truth be told, your mom enjoyed asking about Seonghwa, too. “Tell her what I tell my mom about you.”

His brow flicked up when he glanced at you this time. “And what's that?”

“That you're fine—I mean, doing fine.”

The car paused at the red light, the rain continuing to drum overhead. His stare bored into the side of your head, and you couldn't understand why your pulse suddenly leapt. Your heart was doing sprints—no, cartwheels—as his lips pulled into a cheeky sort of grin. You chalked up your racing heartbeat to annoyance. He did have an infuriating face. “How fine am I, Ln?”

Was it hot in here? You could have sworn the air conditioning was on.

You looked back at him blankly and held your poker face for as long as physically possible. “Check your ego, Park.”

The only reason he broke away was because the traffic light turned green.

As a responsible pre-health student with an impending physics midterm, you were stuck in the library on a Friday afternoon. The weeks seemed to tear by fast in the spring quarter, and you weren't sure you could keep up. Rain, as forecasted by the oh-so-helpful Aurora County weatherman, battered the windows of Quill Library, creating a comfortable white noise that nestled between the gaps of your headphones’ shoddy noise cancelling function.

You stretched your arms over your head and pulled your spine up toward the ceiling. That was another practice problem set completed, and yet, you still felt worlds away from where you wanted to be.

With your head raised, you made a cursory scan of your surroundings. In this area of Quill, the tables were slightly larger, big enough to fit four people comfortably, as well as any and all work those four people might find themselves tackling. You were this table's lone occupant, but there were other tables lining the window down the length of this wall of the library, too, all taken up as well. Midterm season made this place popular, no matter the time of day.

It only made sense then that when you turned your head in the direction of the hallway, you made direct eye contact with a pair of fellow students who were undoubtedly in search of an open table, as well.

Kim Hongjoong seemed to physically float at the sight of you—or rather, the sight of your nearly empty table. Seonghwa didn't so much as smile. (You had been seeing a lot of him recently.) The latter had no choice but to follow the former over to where you sat, their wet sneakers tracking over the grey carpet.

You shifted one ear of your headphones. “Hey?”

Hongjoong had his palms pressed together in a prayer position. “Please tell me no one else is sitting here.”

You were tempted to say that Seonghwa might have to go find alternative seating, but even then in this seating climate, that might be too harsh of a joke. “I'm doing well, too, Joong. How are you?” you teased him with a small smile. You made a flourishing gesture to the empty seats across from you. “Yeah no, be my guest.”

“Thank you,” he said, waving Seonghwa over before squeezing into the seat closest to the window. “And sorry, we just had the worst time going through the tables in the reading room. I had no hope.”

You and Seonghwa made brief eye contact as he slid into the seat across from you. “I figured by the defeat on your face,” you mused to Hongjoong. “I just got lucky 'cause my bioethics lecture got out early, so I thought I'd find a place to plant for the afternoon.”

Hongjoong bobbed his head as he rummaged for his iPad in his messenger bag. “Sounds like a plan. I'll probably only be here for a couple hours, really, and then I've got this club meeting to go to.” He nudged Seonghwa with the back of his hand, forcing the man to take out one of his earbuds. “Your plans: go.”

Seonghwa's eyes widened slightly as Hongjoong caught him off guard. His eyes darted to you, then back to his friend. “Uhh,” he said and scratched the side of his jaw, “not sure. I'll see how this goes.” He gestured to the notebook and laptop he'd just pulled out, the notebook cover labeled with a Post-It note that read Phys upside down.

“Yeah,” you drawled with a nod, eyeing him.

“Oh, Yn” —Hongjoong caught you before you moved your headphones back into place and you were lost to the world of fluid mechanics— “Seulgi's hosting a house party tomorrow night. Are you coming?”

Your face lit up with surprise. “That's a little last minute, isn't it?”

He shrugged with a sheepish grin. “You know her,” he replied helplessly. “I know a handful of people from the society will be there—plus, a lot of other people she knows. You should bring your housemates!”

“I dunno, Joong… I do have that midterm on Monday.”

“I already know you'll be studying all weekend,” he parried. “It'll just be for a few hours. You can swing by for a little, catch up, and then head home in time to get enough sleep to cram on Sunday.”

You abhorred that he knew your habits, sleeping and studying. Attending a house party the weekend right before a physics midterm was not a word to the wise, but if people from your society were going to be there, then perhaps they weren't too worried about their exams. It would be a nice, little break from all of the studying you'd been doing lately, as well as a reward for locking in.

Instead of giving Hongjoong a direct response, your eyes flickered to Seonghwa who was pretending like he wasn't listening. “Is he going?” you asked, jabbing the end of your pen in his direction.

“I'm right here,” he muttered.

Hongjoong shrugged. “Don't let a man stop you from having fun, Yn.”

Now that was a word to the wise. You felt your mouth pull into a smirk. “You are so right,” you said to him. “But I'll still have to let you know. If today goes well, then maybe you'll see me.”

A couple of hours came and went, and so too did Hongjoong. He rushed off to his club meeting, wishing both you and Seonghwa luck with your studying.

And then there were two.

You both continued to study independently and silently for a few more hours, coexisting in the same space of the library. At some point, the rain outside had quieted to a misty hush and the majority of the crowd had filed out to spend their Friday evening doing something less depressing.

By the pulsating at your temples, you figured your brain had enough for one afternoon. This session hadn't gone too terribly, you decided, as you drummed your fingers against your notepad. Your eyes lifted up to the man still seated across from you; Seonghwa's cheek was pressed against his fist as he scribbled something out into his notebook before checking it against his calculator.

He felt your flighty gaze, eyes ensnaring yours before you could look away again. “Need something?” he asked, voice slightly hoarse from lack of use.

“Not from you,” was your automatic quip.

He made a show of looking around at the sparsely-populated area of the library. “Well, then you must be looking at a ghost,” he said back with a saccharine sort of smile.

You wrinkled your nose at him before deciding to actually close the lid of your laptop. “I'm going to go now.”

“No one's stopping you.”

“You're not leaving?”

He cocked a brow at you, the hand with his pen stopping on his page. “Just because you are? What do you think I am—obsessed with you?”

The scoff fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, but the heat swarming your cheeks and neck also appeared without permission. “No one mentioned anything about being obsessed with me. I was just asking a question; it's a Friday night, after all.”

“Well, I'm currently on a date with physics.”

“Oh, so you do get action.”

Seonghwa smiled. “More than you, that's for sure.”

“And you say you're not obsessed with me.” You had no idea how the conversation unfolded in this direction, but you were throwing your things into your bag with fervor—anything to get away from him and whatever you were talking about now.

When you picked up your bag, you tucked the chair close to the table. Seonghwa kept his eyes on his laptop screen, cheek against his fist, pen tick-tocking against his finger.

You were only a couple steps away when you heard him say, “See you at the party.”

You whirled around with your mouth open in retort, but you didn't actually know what to say. How could five words evoke such a visceral reaction inside your chest? He heard your response to Hongjoong earlier; he couldn't just assume you would go.

You turned back around without saying anything, and you swore you heard him snicker under his breath as you left. You would not be going to that party, just to make a point.

So maybe you were going to the party.

In your defense, it was not your idea. You were doing it in support of your roommate and good friend Ronnie, who heard her current campus crush was going to be there; thus, the seven of you in the house were going to all attend for a few hours in solidarity.

“It's warm tonight” —a skirt flew at your face, faster than you could realize or catch— “so wear this. You've only worn it, like, what? Once?”

You sputtered as you whipped the skirt out of your eyes and mouth, your expression screwed up in disdain as Ronnie tore your half of the closet apart in search of a suitable top to match. “It’s not like I’m the one about to see my crush,” you said as you lifted the skirt up in front of you to inspect it. Indeed, you had only worn the simple, pleated black garment a total of one time, and you had forgotten it existed ever since.

Ronnie eyed up a big graphic tee in her hand, stripped it from its hanger, then tossed it at you.

“Veronica Shim, I swear to god—”

“Sue me for being nervous,” she squawked. She walked over and grabbed you by the shoulders. “I just need to busy myself before my hands shake so hard, they fall off.”

You peeled the T-shirt she had thrown at you off of your head. “I’m going to get dressed,” you promised, “and then I will let you do my makeup—”

“I love you.” Before you could respond, she was already halfway across the room again, tearing through your makeup box instead. When Ronnie was nervous, there wasn’t very much that could calm her down unless she was physically doing something. It was what made her such an adept physical media artist—the ceramics studio saw her face as often as the library saw yours. The bedroom you shared was covered from ceiling to floor in the origami she folded, from little paper stars to intricate flowers that had taken her days to make.

You were exceptionally fond of her, but if she threw another clothing item at your head, you might lose it.

In about an hour, the seven of you were piled into Lillian's minivan on the way to Seulgi's house. Each passenger, sans Lillian, had each taken a shot of soju Soyeon had found at the back of the kitchen pantry. Suffice to say, Ronnie was ready to actually talk to her crush and you were all prepared to have fun for the first time since midterms started.

You could already hear the music bleeding out from Seulgi's place, accompanied by the warm buzz of laughter and chatter. It was a smaller house at the end of a cul-de-sac a few blocks from where you lived. The driveway and surrounding streets were already chock-full of cars, so Lillian dropped everyone off in front of the house while she and Seeun went to find an open parking spot.

You, Ronnie, and Soyeon had your arms hooked together as Seulgi's housemate Irene let you in. The party was well under way—with it being a little past nine o'clock—and you could already spot some familiar faces in the crowd.

“Wow, it's hot in here,” you shouted over the addicting bass kick of some early 2000s song. There were far too many bodies shoved into the living room; in no way was this within the building’s occupancy capacity.

Ronnie squeezed your hand before letting go. “I just saw my friend Renjun from my design principles class!” she exclaimed, throwing her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I'm gonna go say hi.”

“Okay, have fun!”

Soyeon tugged you in the direction past the kitchen, toward the stairs. “Mingi just texted—apparently they're in the basement and they have tequila shots.”

“You had me at shots,” you replied back with a grin.

Soyeon let out a hoot of approval, and the two of you turned the corner to take the stairs down into the basement below. As you descended into the bowels of the house, you unconsciously tugged the hem of your skirt down. You were definitely not tipsy enough to be unaware of your flashing risk.

There was still a handful of people in the basement, but it was considerably less congested than upstairs. There was even a fan hoisted up into the nearby corner blowing a draft of wind—not cool wind, but wind nonetheless—down over the basement occupants. Closest to you were a few people surrounding a pool table, while the far end was outfitted with a relaxed layout of rugs, blankets, bean bags, and pillows for people to lounge about in. The latter was where your society members were, their voices and laughter already familiar to you.

Wooyoung was the first to notice yours and Soyeon's entrance. He waved his arm at the two of you, careful not to knock off a very flushed San from his other shoulder. “Oy! Look who finally decided to show up.”

“Had to wait for this one to get home and eat dinner first,” Soyeon said with a thumb pointed in your direction, her lips blowing a raspberry.

You threw her a look of betrayal. “If someone had just called me, I would have been home faster!” You made a cursory scan of the people currently present, eyes looking for no one in particular, or maybe just someone to sit next to.

You happened to make eye contact with Seonghwa at one end of the loosely-formed circle, his legs crisscrossed, hands braced behind him. Hongjoong was on one side of him, but the other side was occupied by a girl you did not recognize. She was not from the society and she wasn't someone whom you had seen at a social function before either.

Before your face could visibly show your confusion, you were tugged down next to Wooyoung.

A clear shot glass was handed over to you, equally clear liquid sloshing over the rim, and it came as a packaged deal with a roughly sliced lime wedge. “Here” —Wooyoung placed one in each of your hands— “you can finish San's shot.”

“I can finish it!” San cried from his other side, lips pouty and face red as tomato soup.

Both you and Wooyoung gave him the same expression. “No way.”

You took one for the team (San), and dunked the shot back, following it swiftly by the lime between your teeth. You grimaced at the initial burn, but it subsided the longer you sucked on the lime wedge.

“Yah, both Soyeon and Yn need extra shots,” Yunho hollered from his seat between Mingi and Lia. He grinned as he liberally poured two more shots, one in a teacup and one in a miniature beaker.

You took the lime out from your mouth. “Says who?”

“Says me!” Seulgi chimed in, clapping her hands. “Minimum two shots to stay in the circle—”

“Unless you're driving,” Jongho called out.

“Truuue,” Seulgi agreed with a nod in his direction. “So drink up, ladies.”

Who were you to argue with your host? You were already technically two shots in, thanks to your light pregaming, but you weren't about to complain. The shot glasses were passed around the circle to where you and Soyeon were seated, and you both dutifully paid your toll.

Just as you finished, you felt Wooyoung sling one of his arms over your shoulders. The movement seemed to make your world spin just a little bit more. “Guys, we should play Hot Seat!”

“Ooh, like the game we played in middle school?” Chaeryeong asked.

“But I don't want my seat to be hot,” San muttered, lips curving into a frown.

You cooed at him, reaching around Wooyoung to pinch San's cheeks together in one hand. “Oh my god, you're so cute. How many drinks have you had?”

(From across the circle, Seonghwa's nose wrinkled. He leaned over toward Hongjoong's ear, muttering, “He's not that cute, is he?” He had certainly thought it to himself a few minutes ago, but that was before you said it out loud.

Hongjoong turned his head, face contorted into pure incredulity. “You're… kidding, right?”)

San’s frown deepened as he slurred, “Only two.”

“And that's the way it's gonna stay,” Wooyoung declared, patting his friend on the head with pursed lips. “Personally, I think Hot Seat is befitting of our current situation. You know, apparently, we're supposed to get a heatwave these next few weeks?”

Soyeon tipped her head back in a groan. “Dude, I cannot take any more of this! I can't even tell if I'm sweating or if it's from the rain.”

“Tell me about it,” Seulgi grumbled. “At this point, we'll need to start planning for the postponed car wash fundraiser on top of the bracelet-making one.”

“Why are we talking business at a party?” Mingi cut in. He had one elbow resting on Yunho's shoulder while the other hand raised a red Solo cup of his poison for the night to his lips. “Let’s play Hot Seat.”

“Take a shot for every question you don't want to answer?” you asked, glancing around the circle.

Only murmurs of agreement met your ears, and someone chimed in with a suggestion of three questions per person.

As the one who proposed the game, Wooyoung had the honor of going first. The only issue was that Wooyoung was the closest thing to an open book out of the entire group; it was hard to find a topic he would feel hesitant to answer out loud. Wooyoung's turn on the hot seat slipped by as fast as a summer breeze, and the baton was passed onto you (to give San a fighting chance, of course).

“Well, this should be good,” you chuckled, hoping your nervousness didn't shine through too much. Maybe an additional shot would actually help you.

Soyeon's grin lit up her face. “Ooh, I've got one!”

“Oh no.”

“If Kim Hongjoong and Jung Wooyoung were each being dangled over a pit of lava—”

Both Hongjoong and Wooyoung jerked to life at the same time from opposite ends of the circle as everyone else erupted into laughter. “Now wait a second!”

“—who would you choose to save?”

You covered your smile with your hand and ignored Wooyoung's eyes burning two holes into the side of your head as best as you could. “Well, that's not fair; I need context!”

Soyeon shrugged. “To save the world, I guess.”

“To save the world?” You let it sink in. “Can't I drop both of them in?” you jested, guffawing at Wooyoung playfully shaking your shoulders and Hongjoong shouting his dissent from across the circle. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Hongjoong—you’re going in the pit!”

“I knew I was your favorite,” Wooyoung sighed and draped himself over your shoulders.

“Her answer was coerced!” Hongjoong flashed you a wry and petulant smile as Seonghwa placated him with a pat on his back. It said everything you needed to know: you would pay for this. “You should've taken the shot, Yn.”

“I've got a question” —Yunho cut in, and there was this boyish sort of smile on his face with an impish twinkle in his eyes. You knew him well enough not to trust that look— “do you actually hate Seonghwa?”

Half the group shot wide-eyed stares at Yunho, with Mingi shoving him in the shoulder, while the other half had their attention darting curiously between you and Seonghwa. There was a smile of disbelief that crawled onto your face as your immediate reaction; your sympathetic nervous system had jumped into high gear, as well, making your heart pound and palms sweat.

What kind of question…?

You tried not to glance in Seonghwa's direction. “Hate is a… strong word,” you drawled, dragging out the syllables of the latter half. Your fingers played around with the empty shot glass sitting on the rug in front of you, index tracing the rim.

“You’ve gotta answer the question, Yn,” Yunho prompted, the smile on his face only widening.

“Yeah, answer the question, Ln.”

That had your head turning. Seonghwa did not look away when you met his gaze, and you couldn't tell from this distance if that was pure stoicism in his face, or if there was something else hidden there. The blood in your veins thrummed, simmered. His tone was so annoying though. This question was so annoying. Who asked this kind of thing in a group setting, let alone when you were barely even drunk?

You picked up the shot glass and wiggled it in the air. “Pour me one.”

A group-wide groan erupted in this corner of Seulgi's basement, cleaving the tension wide open. You ignored everyone’s playful shouts of dissent, their urges for you to hurt Seonghwa’s feelings and bruise his ego with your honesty; you insisted on the shot, and because Yunho was a little butthurt, Mingi took over the role of Keeper of Tequila and poured you one.

You drained the shot with ease—better the bitter burn of fermented agave than the bitter burn of truthful words. (Maybe you just didn’t want to confront the very words you had already spoken, that ‘hate’ really was too strong in describing what you felt for Park Seonghwa.) It was the coward’s way out, but the night was still young and you were still in the hot seat.

The last question you were dealt was dutifully delivered by Kim Hongjoong, as was prophesied by your disservice to him in your earlier answer. He asked if you had really cheated during the Trivia Night three months ago about plant physiology. It had been a point of great contention back then, and it didn’t truly matter in the grand scheme of things; plant physiology night was “for fun,” but everyone here owned at least one competitive bone in their body.

As everyone leaned in, expecting a horrible scandal to be confirmed, you said, “No, but I know who did.”

The group howled once more—you wouldn’t be surprised if the goddamn neighbors could hear you all at this point—as they hounded you for answers. They were answers you wouldn’t give, however, because you had fulfilled your turn on the hot seat.

You leaned back onto your palms and the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly now that you were no longer in the spotlight.

A loud giggle cut through all the noise around you. From across the circle, the girl you did not recognize was laughing into her palm, Seonghwa's mouth still moving as he muttered something under his breath so only the people around him heard.

Your face fell. “He's not that funny,” you grumbled to Wooyoung, since Yeosang was busy answering a question on your left.

Your friend snorted loud enough that glances were thrown his way.

“Just admit you're mad you can't hear what he's saying,” he said to you, keeping his volume low enough this time so only you were privy to his words.

What an egregious take! It was hotter than hot, scalding even. “Why would I be mad that I can't hear him? If anything, I'm pissed he's right in my line of sight.”

Wooyoung only lifted a brow at you, his mouth curving into his cheek while he smirked, unconvinced. ‘Jelly,’ was what he mouthed at you in exaggerated movements.

You huffed and shook your head. No way you were mad or jealous.

Park Seonghwa was drunk. At least, he was pretty sure he was on the cusp of tipsy and drunk—inebriated would be an apt term. The room was spinning; that was one standout symptom he was experiencing at the moment. Dim, amber lights swirling with the faces and basement walls around him, voices he recognized. Hongjoong would have definitely added that he giggled way too much to be Sober Seonghwa. It was settled then: he was drunk.

“Guys, be honest with me” —that was San’s voice… no. No, wait. That was definitely Wooyoung’s. He swore he saw his mouth move— “who do we think is gonna get married first out of all of us?”

The group had dwindled down considerably following the conclusion to the game Hot Seat. Though the space taken up remained the same, the blob was far more deformed now. One could not call it a circle if they had even an ounce of integrity.

Seulgi lifted her beer bottle to her lips. “Not me,” she drawled with a snort.

“I think Lia,” said Soyeon.

There was movement next to Wooyoung, and Seonghwa watched you wag your finger in Soyeon's direction. Your head was on Wooyoung's shoulder, alcohol-induced drowsiness hitting you while it was making him think things. “Mmh,” you agreed, “but I raise you: Jung Wooyoung.”

Hongjoong loosened a sound from his lips that made Seonghwa giggle again. “Yah, now you're just doing it on purpose!”

“I can hype up my bestie, Kim!”

“Yeah!” Wooyoung chimed in. “Let her hype me up, Kim!”

“Alright, but,” Yunho said, mouth already stretched in a grin, “he couldn't even ask out his work crush, remember?”

Wooyoung's eyes shot wide open. “Oy—the work environment at Gap was just not confession-friendly! It was actually anti-romance.”

Cutting through Yunho's snickering, a slightly-flushed Mingi raised his fingers for his turn. “Let's not sleep on the real secret romantic, Mr. Choi Jongho.”

A murmur of agreement swept around the group as all eyes went to the only truly sober member of the blob. Jongho lifted his can of ginger ale to his lips for a small sip, but shook his head as he did. “I don't know where you're getting this misinformation from.”

“Wait, no! Mingi's right,” you piped up, even sitting upright to gesture with your arm at Jongho. (Seonghwa shifted in his spot, jerking as you moved. His inhibitions were… not in the building.) “You would totally be in a long term relationship for years and not tell anyone until you're sending out Save the Dates!”

“Exactly,” Seonghwa suddenly said, nodding his head. Oh—people were looking at him—did he say that out loud? He could agree with you sometimes; he just didn't often agree with you aloud. “What?”

Hongjoong blinked at him, his eyebrows scrunched together, lips parting slightly before he pursed them, as if deciding against whatever thought wanted to breathe air.

You were the only one not looking at him like he'd just sprouted another head. There was that familiar neutrality, a slightly warmer version of the crinkle-nosed brattiness that drove him up the walls.

“You guys are weird,” he muttered and flicked his eyebrows up, then took a swig out of the half-empty soju bottle parked between him and Hongjoong.

“What if I think Yn will get married first?” These were San's first, sober words since he had woken up from a brief nap; but considering what he said, maybe he hadn't quite reached sobriety yet.

Everyone's attention flipped to the opposite side of the group again, Seonghwa included. The question was cold gutter water that splashed over him from the street, and any haziness disappeared in an instant.

“No fucking way,” both you and Seonghwa said at once.

Time stilled.

Yunho reacted first, leaning his chin onto his fist. He used his other hand to gesture between you two. “Interesting. Explain.”

Seonghwa leveled his gaze with yours. "I'm not claiming anything. I just don't think she'll be the first to get married.” He clutched the bottleneck in his hand, the glass hanging midway between the ground and his mouth, his elbow propped on top of his knee while he watched your reaction.

“The feeling's mutual,” you replied tersely, a thin smile spread on your face. “What was it you said the other day? That you were on a date with physics?”

“Well, I definitely wasn't on a date with you.”

Out of Seonghwa's periphery, Hongjoong slapped his hand over his mouth.

There was a warm thrill beneath his skin as your eyes narrowed at him. “Funny, 'cause everyone here knows I would rather retake calculus than even think about going on a date with you.”

“I’m touched, Ln, really.”

“Oh, there they are!” Heads turned in the direction of the voice. It cut through all of the buzz and chatter down here in the basement. Seonghwa's mind was yet to be at its sharpest still, but he was able to recognize the familiar faces of two of your and Soyeon's housemates, Seeun and Lillian. They bumbled over, arms linked and faces flushed with the spirits they had consumed tonight. “Yn, Soyeon—we’re stealing you!”

“Recruiting,” Lillian corrected Seeun with a pointed cough. “We are recruiting you to take over the pool table over there.” She thrust an arm in the direction of the opposite end of the room.

Seonghwa took an absent-minded sip of his drink as your friends tugged you and Soyeon to your feet, then stole you away from the group and whatever this conversation had turned into. The conversation blurred into something about long-term relationships again, drifting further away from the initial marriage inquiry and to something more palatable for a bunch of young 20-somethings.

The liquid in his bottle was drained, then replaced by another. To hell with that physics exam on Monday, he supposed.

Hongjoong passed him a glance. “Are you… gonna slow down soon?”

“Maybe after this,” Seonghwa muttered with his lips at the bottle rim. His eyes kept on wandering over toward the opposite end of the room to where you stood at the pool table; and the more he drank, the harder it was for his consciousness to drag his focus back to the people around him.

Your laugh cleaved through any self-control he had left. He leaned back on one hand, catching how you tugged down the hem of your skirt with an instinctive motion, before taking the pool cue from one of the guys there—

“Hwa” —he heard his name, but his head was slow to turn. Seulgi was smiling at him, and maybe if he hadn't had this last bottle, he would have noticed the knowing tilt of her expression— “what about you?”

“Hm?”

“Anybody you're interested in?”

Seonghwa's skin warmed as if he had just been caught. “Not really,” he answered and straightened from his previous position. He resisted the urge to look, to reveal every single one of his cards with one, stupid look. How he managed to bite his tongue this time was a miracle, but if anybody asked him again, he might admit his answer would be “the girl in the skirt.”

When the Parks moved to your neighborhood in the third grade, your mom and Seonghwa’s mom became fast friends. The comparisons did not start immediately, but they were always there, lurking in the shadows of the upstairs hallways, in the whispers echoing from the kitchen when the “adults were talking.” There was almost an instant competition between your mothers on who could praise the other’s child best.

Subsequently, it was not uncommon to find yourself at your new rival’s house. Dinner or lunch or an afternoon snack was often offered at one another’s houses—oranges and peaches washed and sliced with precision, bikes abandoned on the wooden porch (your house) or at the side gate (Seonghwa’s house).

You had only ever been in Seonghwa’s room once, and that was seven years later, in the tenth grade. He was reluctant to let you into his safe space and you were reluctant to be in his space, but your mothers insisted, and their voices dropped into hushed tones as you both disappeared up the stairs in silence.

Seonghwa wordlessly opened the door to his room, and you were whacked in the face by the amount of things there: on the walls, filling the shelves, tucked away in boxes on the floor. It was an explosion of pop culture paraphernalia you were actually familiar with, but the one that was represented the most was—

“I’m more of a Star Trek person myself,” you said, leaning toward a fully-assembled Lego version of the Millenium Falcon.

Seonghwa hung close at your side, hovering, his arms crossed over his chest while he watched you carefully. “Nobody asked.”

You stuck your hand up at him with the Spock salute, index to middle finger and ring to pinky finger.

That drew a half-scoff, half-laugh from his mouth. He shook his head. “You’re such a nerd.”

“As opposed to…?” You straightened and put your arms out to gesture around you at his whole room. There were about a million weird things that tenth grade boys could be into, but there was a huge chunk of you glad that this was his chosen obsession. Star Wars or Star Trek, you would pick a nerd over a creep any day of the week. Not that you would pick him of all people…

“If you think I'm going to say you have a point,” he began.

“You don't have to say it,” you finished for him, turning to inspect the Tai Fighter on a lower shelf. “I already know that I do.”

You could hear him roll his eyes. He seemed to do that a lot. “Can’t believe you like Star Trek better.”

You snorted, twisting around to peer up at him from your squatting position. “What? You can't handle that I have a different opinion?”

“No, I just thought you'd have better taste,” he replied airily.

Something within you paused at that. Though only a flippant parry at your own quip, you thought to yourself how ironic it was that you actually preferred the Star Wars franchise over the Star Trek franchise.

The only reason you bantered with him about it and stood your ground playing the Devil's Advocate was to breach that obvious discomfort you both bore coming in here. Bickering between you was natural, familiar… and the truth behind your words that day would be something you swore you would never reveal to him ever.

“You’re trying to figure out what Seonghwa got on the exam, aren't you?”

You jerked your head to the forward direction and slid down in your seat, moving your pen back over your notebook. Seonghwa was seated on the far right side of the hall, whereas you and Soyeon were somewhere in the middle. There was no way you could see minute details from this distance, but you could certainly try to read his body language from here. “...No, I'm not.”

Soyeon flashed you a sidelong glance that spoke volumes on its own. “Yes, you are. Your eyes aren't very subtle, you know.”

“They're not?”

She snorted, the sound loud enough only to draw the attention of the person seated on her other side.

The week had dragged by at a snail's pace, compared to the prior week and weekend. As soon as you were released from your physics midterm on Monday, it was as if the world set its playback speed at 0.5. Perhaps it was the swath of heat that had descended upon the city that made everyday double in length. With no more gray skies and buckets of rain, the inhabitants of Aurora County were left to not only the unbearable heat, but the wrath of the sun, too.

Unfortunately, now that midterm exams were mostly completed, all that was left to do was await the scores. The atmosphere in your biochemistry lecture this morning had been suffocating in despair over the scores released yesterday afternoon. As customary, your professor was taking the beginning portion of lecture to review exam statistics and frequently missed questions.

Soyeon grumbled under her breath as she pulled her tablet out from her bag. “I think he should have curved it more,” she grunted, logging into the class-wide polling system. “Those questions about the Krebs Cycle were so stupid.”

“Yeah, they were way out of left field,” you agreed. You hadn't done half bad on this past exam, but you weren't about to rub it in. It didn't mean you were the one who fucked the curve or anything; it only meant that you somehow ended up just a little above the average. Maybe those extra hours spent in Quill had been for something.

“Are you going to the meeting tonight?”

You shook your head, glancing between the screen and your own notes as you scribbled a big question mark in the margins by a note. “No, I picked up another shift at the tutor center,” you replied.

As today was Thursday, usually the society would hold a Trivia Night, but Seulgi had made the executive decision to meet about this weekend's bracelet-making event instead. It was a more relaxed meeting meant for celebrating the end of midterm exams, while chatting about any last minute details for the event. You had already informed Seulgi in advance that you wouldn't be able to make it.

Soyeon let out a low whistle. “Another one?”

“Yeah,” you said with a helpless shrug. “But it's to make up for the shifts I missed to study. Apparently, the Gen Chem classes still have an exam next week.”

“Damn. Sucks to be them.”

You grinned and shook your head. “As if we weren't them once.” There had been a time when the lot of you in your pre-health society treaded through the murky and dark waters of the general chemistry series. Venting about the ridiculously-convoluted lab procedures and steep exam curves were rites of passage, at this point.

As Dr. Chung, your biochemistry professor, continued on with his planned lecture for the day, you leaned your cheek against your fist, gaze drifting back over to the right side of the hall. At some point, you were only half-tuned into whatever Chung was saying; the rest of your attention was worlds away.

You hadn't seen Seonghwa after your sociology lecture yesterday, but then again, it hadn't been raining and you had to linger back to chat with your professor about a lecture topic. If he had passed through that alleyway again, he hadn't said anything.

Suddenly, the back of the head you were staring at turned over his shoulder.

He hit his target dead-on, and his eye contact made you shudder out of your daze. Seonghwa made an exaggerated face so you could see it from that distance. What?

You stuck your tongue out at him, then forced yourself to look forward at the board. (Though, that sixth sense you had could tangibly feel his eyes roll at you.)

When the lecture ended, you and Soyeon moved out of the lecture hall with the current of your peers. You were so engrossed in making sure you weren't walking into anybody, you nearly missed the man that fell into step beside you.

“What's your deal this time, Ln?”

You perked up in surprise at the sound of Seonghwa's voice and him. Where he was seated, he should have been clear out of the building by now. He must have hung back then. “I have no idea what you're goin’ on about, Park.”

One of his brows quirked upward at you as he shouldered the door open. “You are not getting away with burning two holes in the back of my head.”

“You know,” you said, feigning thoughtfulness as you tapped your chin, “maybe I can—”

Seonghwa peered around you at Soyeon. “What'd she want?”

“I’m not getting involved,” she declared. She raised her palms up at the both of you, shaking her head vehemently. Once you had all descended the stairs to the pathway below, she began stepping in the direction of her next course. “See you, guys!”

With Soyeon respectfully bowing out, it left you and Seonghwa. Again.

He looked at you expectantly.

“I just wanted to know how you did on the exam,” you said with as much nonchalance as you could muster. “No biggie.”

Seonghwa crossed his arms over his chest. “How did you do on the exam?”

“Fine.”

“Well, so did I.”

You nodded. “Cool. Good talk!” You swiveled on the ball of your foot and prepared to take off, but he was swift to latch onto the top handle of your backpack.

“Hold it” —he turned you back around just in time to catch the irritation cross your face— “are you going to the meeting tonight?”

He stopped you for this? “No, I'm working.”

Something flickered in his expression; it was nothing you could label clearly. It was probably just his initial surprise. “Oh. Sucks.”

You nodded again, mouth pressed together. “Yup. See you on Saturday for the fundraiser then.”

“Yeah, see you.”

How interesting that he cared to even ask that, you thought as you went off to your physics lab. Then again, one could ask that of any instance you or he inquired about the other’s movements. At some point, it had become some convoluted game of chess; though, the older the two of you became, the way in which you played the game shifted. It was less capturing the other's pieces to get to checkmate first, and more so flirting with the idea of check. No matter—any lingering curiosities regarding one Park Seonghwa was dashed away and replaced by the remainder of your day.

And just like that, it was Saturday.

The pre-health student society had managed to snag use of a local cafe space for the event, probably thanks to Seulgi’s friend of a friend working as a shift supervisor there. It was of a cozy-modern design complete with smooth, white countertops and furniture, cute character mascots painted on the walls, and complete with the all-encompassing scent of roasted coffee. A late Saturday afternoon found the place packed to the brim with students, not just for your event, but general college students milling by for a weekend treat. It seemed to attract even more people to the event itself though; poor Hongjoong and Taeyong were asked to run to the nearby craft store a few blocks over to purchase some necessary stock of thread and beads.

The cafe was alive with the buzz of chatter, the clanging of coffee-making, and the dull sounds of acrylic beads dribbling off the sides of tables. In all definitions, the event looked and sounded like a success.

“How does anyone do this for fun? Oh—shit—”

You wanted to jump off a roof. Or maybe stick your hand in that canister of boiling milk by the espresso machine ten feet behind you. Or just be anywhere but here. Across the small, two-seater table from you was a man you had only seen in passing and never properly interacted with. He was not a member of the society, so you could only imagine that he was a mutual friend of one of your society-mates. After this dreadful afternoon was over, you were going to find out who this man was connected to and—

“Can you catch that for me? Thanks.” Justin—your partner for the afternoon—took the beads from the center of your palm and squinted his eyes as he tried to string them on his piece of electric blue thread.

The issue wasn’t that he couldn’t make a bracelet for shit; the issue was far more personal than that. “Yeah, sure,” you said quietly, trying to ignore the fact that the pair right next to you kept sending glances over at your table. To make it worse, that very pair was Park Seonghwa and that girl from Seulgi’s party last Saturday. Your adept eavesdropping skills managed to pick up that she was vaguely connected to Seulgi through one group project they completed together in a freshman year dance class. (Why was it always Seulgi?)

You straightened, tying off the little loop you had made with a few seed beads. Maybe you should try making conversation again. “So, uhm,” you began, “you mentioned that you’re taking an econ class about… foreign markets?”

The guy nodded. “Yeah, Economics in Cold War Foreign Trade—it’s kind of interesting, actually.”

Oh. Economics wasn’t really your forte, but if he was passionate about this subject, then it would at least make for an engaging conversation. You can work with this, Yn. “Then I’d love to hear more. What’re you guys currently learning?”

“You know, like the drive of U.S. actions during the Cold War,” Justin said with a shrug, not really looking up from his bead struggle. “People always forget that a major part of our foreign policy back then was driven by this need to dominate global markets and defend against communism. I mean, sure there was that thing with Guatemala” —he paused his ramble and spared you a glance— “but you don’t seem like the type to be interested in that.”

Your hand movements paused, your facial features twitching into a confused smile. “I’m sorry?” What was that supposed to mean?

He looked at you again. “I just mean,” he said, “that you don’t look like the kind of person who would understand the nuances of that whole situation.”

For a pregnant moment, you just stared at him. Was he being serious? “You could… give context,” you drawled, curling back all of the rage slowly mounting up inside of you like a tea kettle. “That’s why I asked.”

“Oh.” Justin’s eyes darted back down to his hands and he let out a laugh, the kind of sound that someone made when they were uncomfortable. “There are just a lot of terms, y’know, that I’m not sure you would understand—”

Your eyes went to the ceiling for a second. “Okay, just stop,” you cut in and waved your hands in an accompanying gesture. Why was this fucking business major talking down to you?

The table descended into silence, and your counterpart mercifully shut his mouth. You didn’t know what was more embarrassing: hearing this man effortlessly shut down any will you had left, or that the only other people who were privy to this conversation was Seonghwa and his event partner. Their conversation was much lower in volume, but you’d overheard the occasional chuckle.

You resisted the urge to huff; this was the worst.

“Listen.”

You spoke too soon. When you glanced up from your beads, it was not at the man directly across from you, but the one who sat diagonal to you one table over. You swore he just rolled his own eyes.

Justin, stupidly, continued. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I don’t really go on dates with nerds—”

“Who said you’re on a date?”

“Who said we’re on a date?”

Both you and Justin whipped around to the table beside you. You could recognize that first voice even with your eyes closed and your body running on fumes. Incredulity, embarrassment, and perhaps even gratitude warmed the skin of your neck and face as you and Seonghwa made brief eye contact.

“Sorry?” Justin stammered. “This isn’t your business, dude.”

Your eye twitched again. He wasn’t even talking to you. “Hey!” You snapped your fingers at Justin like he was a dog, and at this point, that was an insult to dogs everywhere. “It isn’t his business, but he’s right. We’re not on a date, and the only reason I even put up with you was for the sake of my society’s event.” Not to mention that you were giving him the benefit of the doubt, something he clearly didn’t deserve.

“If it’s not a date, then why the fuck’s it called matchmaking?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes again before narrowing them into twin slits. “Didn’t you read the flyer, dude? We’re making fuckass friendship bracelets.”

Justin fumbled with the thread in his hands as he struggled to come up with an adequate retort. If your blood wasn’t still simmering from his previous statements, you might have laughed at the way his face flushed, flustered by the lack of support he was getting while Seonghwa backed you up. In his fidgeting, every single bead he managed to string over the past fifteen minutes escaped from their thread, skittering to the floor with the likeness of a thousand dust mites scattering from a sudden beam of light. “Fuck this,” he huffed, throwing down the sad piece of string onto the table. “Can’t believe I paid for this shit.”

He pushed out of his seat, the movement causing an ear-piercing SCREECH to tear through the cafe. A few curious and concerned eyes followed him as he stormed out of the establishment. You half expected him to trip over one of the fallen beads he hadn’t bothered to pick up. (If karma was real, that would have happened.)

Your gaze met that of Seulgi’s, who had been strolling around, socializing and monitoring people’s progress during the event. She hustled over, eyes wide as her head flicked between you and the door swinging open. “What happened?” she asked, not accusatory, but rather greatly concerned.

“He was a prick,” Seonghwa answered matter-of-factly while crossing his arms over his chest.

“He said some not-nice things,” you followed up. The steam in your ears was gradually dissipating, in turn, clearing your vision of your own ire. “Who’s friend was he?”

Seulgi frowned and stood with a hand braced on the back of your chair and the girl next to yours. “I could’ve sworn…” her voice trailed off as she scanned the room. Then a curse tumbled out from her mouth, a hand slapping against her forehead. “Goddamn it,” she said, “your partner was supposed to be Lee Jeno—you know, Taeyong’s friend? He sat down at the wrong table, ugh. JENO!”

You all turned. Across the cafe, a dark head of hair perked up from one of the tables, his eyes as wide as the bottom of a coffee pot from the sound of his name being barked out.

You grimaced. “Hey, Seulgi, it’s fine—”

Seulgi waved her hand. “No, no. I should have micromanaged him; he saw the letter J and went with it! My plan,” she groaned. Despite her initial dismissal, she did not go off to scold Jeno or bring him to his original assignment; she merely turned back around and pinched the space between her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Yn. This should have never happened.”

You nodded your head with pursed lips, unsure of what to say. “It’s not your fault, really.” One could not control the audacity that emerged from a man’s mouth.

“Oh my gosh, wait. Let me find someone else for you to sit with.”

“Seulgi” —Seonghwa’s voice drew your attention back to him— “she can just join our table. It’s fine.”

You startled and shook your head, glancing between him and your society president. Become the third wheel to Seonghwa and Sydney (that was her name, if you remembered correctly)? You would rather waltz into the oncoming traffic outside the door. Hadn’t you had enough social anxiety for today? “That’s okay! I really don’t think I’m up to doing this any longer. Can I just, like, monitor or something?”

Seulgi licked her lips. For a long beat, you truly believed she would refuse you. “Okay, yeah,” she said whilst nodding her head. She made a sweeping gesture with her hand as she took a step back. “I was just about to give Taeyong a break from the supply table, if you wanna do that.” How could you ever doubt your easygoing, existentially-exhausted senior?

You pushed out a sigh of relief. The chair legs scraped against the wood floors as you stood, sending any nearby beads tumbling further into motion. “Let me pick up these beads though before someone breaks a leg,” you joked.

“You don't have to—”

“Don't,” Seonghwa cut in and practically waved you away. “Just leave 'em. No one's gonna trip; we'll get them later.”

He sent you a pointed look at your balking and the sternness there sent your toes curling. It wasn't only firm, but you swore there was a tenderness there, too. It was an action not meant to boss you around but to remind you that you did not have to be the one to pick up some asshole's mess.

You gripped the back of your chair, then slowly rose from it, nodding. “Right,” you whispered.

Seulgi led you over to where Taeyong was, all the while apologizing profusely for Jeno's lack of literacy for his own name. You dutifully replaced the vice president at his post, falling into an easy rhythm of organizing beads into small, metal trays, keeping threads from knotting if they were returned, and doling out the appropriate materials.

As the event passed on, you could feel the side of your head tingle, a phantom ache. When one was burned by the sun, the target area of skin often felt distinctly hot and irritated upon touch. You glanced up in the direction of said sun, catching only the movement of Seonghwa's head as he engaged in conversation with Sydney across from him.

You feigned a look away, watching from the corner of your vision as his stare touched you once more. An abrupt bout of tightness flared up in your chest, nerves inflamed and sensitive. Why was he looking over here so much? It had to do with what happened.

For the remainder of your time, you kept your eyes to yourself and tried to ignore the instincts compelling you to meet his gaze.

By the time Seulgi and Taeyong brought the event to a close, the sky had already fallen to darkness, the merciless sun sinking beneath the fold of Earth's horizon. You and the other members of the society made quick work of cleaning up all your messes—it turned out that nearly every table had spilled a handful of beads at some point. You felt a little less horrible about your own situation.

You grabbed your bag from the employee's room in step with Soyeon. “Oh my gosh, wait I have something to tell…” your voice trailed off, vision snagging on the person heading for the exit door. A lightbulb clicked on in your head. Right.

“I'll meet you at home,” you promised her with a hand grazing her shoulder. There was something you needed to do first.

Soyeon's brows twisted at your actions, but she sputtered a good-natured laugh anyway. “Okay? See you at home.”

“Yo—Park! Wait up,” you called after his retreating backside, his body nearly completely over the threshold of the cafe door.

Seonghwa paused in the doorway, angling slightly to watch you catch up to him and keep the door open. “What’s up?” he asked before letting the door fall behind the two of you.

The evening outside was temperate, comfortable. Though the heat remained, it was no longer stifling like its sister, Daytime. Rather, the warmth settled over your skin as a thin shawl with no breeze interrupting. By many definitions, this was a perfect summer’s night despite it still being in the midst of spring. The streetlights flickered to their ‘on’ positions, painting the pavement a nostalgic sodium-orange up and down the university district.

You fell into step beside him and his pace slowed slightly as the two of you walked in the northerly direction toward your separate houses. “I just,” you began, the words needling at the back of your throat like an itch, “wanted to say thanks—for speaking up for me back there.”

Seonghwa glanced at you briefly. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his cargo pants, keys clinking against his thigh with each step he took. “Oh. Well, it was kind of the bare minimum, and that dude was being a class A jackass, so…” his voice trailed off as he took a hand out to rub the back of his neck. He stole another glance at you. “Are we cool? I mean,” he amended, “are you okay? What he was saying was just” —he pushed out a sharp exhale— “not nice, as you said before.”

You pursed your lips in memory of Justin’s words to you. “Yeah, I don’t know. Of course, it struck a nerve at the time, but it was more so that I couldn’t believe that he was actually saying those words.” You laughed, the sound coming out breathy and incredulous. “He was not only stupid, but blatantly ignorant. He was entitled, insensitive, and a fucking piece of shit.”

“I won’t argue with any of that.”

“You better not,” you jested.

You nearly stopped in your tracks. Was this the first time that you and Seonghwa were conducting a conversation of this nature, ever? Of course, both of you had your share of asshole run-ins, but you were never close enough to really have a meaningful conversation about any of it—not the awful people in your lives, not the way your moms made you unofficial rivals, and not the fact that neither of you could get over yourselves for two seconds. It had to be that you were seeing him way more often this quarter compared to every other quarter. Yes, that had to be it.

The silence between you two became too comfortable. The warmth in the air was too comfortable. The oscillating distance between your bodies as you walked side by side was too…

You cleared your throat. “I would choose a nerd over a douchebag any day of the week,” you mused in an attempt to keep the conversation alive. Anything but whatever this was.

Seonghwa released a sound that was akin to a laugh or a choke; you couldn’t tell. “Right,” he murmured. He fiddled around in his right-hand pocket for a moment, and you could hear the fabric rustling. Then it stopped, his head turning away from you like he was changing his mind. “Not to agree with you three times in one day, Ln, but same.”

“High score?” you chimed in weakly.

He faced you again, the amber warmth of the streetlight becoming his backlight, a halo. You couldn’t see his expression clearly with the shadows in the way, but maybe there was a smile there that beheld a softness you didn’t want to believe in. “Yeah, sure. High score, you dork.”

There were moments in time when you decided to be a good person. Objectively, it was more accurate to describe yourself as a good friend—or if one wished to be even more particular—a doormat. Case in point: agreeing to run a phone down to the college’s natatorium when that very building was a good forty-five minute walk from your house on the opposite side of campus. If you took the bus, it might shave your estimated time of arrival down to twenty minutes, or increase it up to an hour, depending on the bus line. Even worse, temperatures were pushing the mid-nineties in Fahrenheit, and the phone's owner was none other than Park Seonghwa.

You were doing this for Mingi and the chocolate chip muffins his mom made—at least, that was what you were telling yourself.

The bus beneath you rattled and squealed with every stretch of road it traversed. Rather than cutting through campus itself, it made a grand loop around its perimeter, catching the students and faculty who were forced to trek to the further reaches of campus rather than its heart. You fiddled with the phone in your hands; his case was a chrome silver vinyl plastic mimicking a quilted fabric. It was an interesting choice, one that you yourself wouldn’t have made, but in your heart, you knew it certainly encompassed his tastes. You scrunched your nose up as you turned it around and the screen lit up, sensing the presence of a face in front of it.

The device didn’t accept your face ID, of course, but you were left staring at the notifications on it. There were one or two text messages from names you vaguely recognized, a message from some group chat labeled “PSYCH202,” and a notification from some mobile game. A thought popped into your head, and you slipped your own phone out from your pocket, weighing the two devices before you.

What were you called in his contacts?

Ding! —Your head shot up and your body jerked in reaction to a particularly rough pothole in the road. “Next stop: East Paradigm and New World Street.”

You twisted in your seat to yank the yellow cord hanging along the side of the bus, eliciting a softer ding! to echo throughout the vehicle, followed by the words STOP REQUESTED displayed at the front.

It was a sign, you decided, to not try your little experiment.

When the bus came to a teetering stop at the E. Paradigm and New World stop, you called out a thanks to the bus driver before taking off in the direction of the natatorium. There was a paved pathway that broke off from the main road and bordered by smartly-trimmed bushes. It wound down the hill, and framed the glorious face of the KQ University indoor pool perfectly. Its wave-like rafters created a lengthened dome akin to the back of a seashell. Between the sandstone frame were pieces of cerulean blue-tinted glass to compliment the off-white building. You did not often find yourself in this area of campus, but you couldn’t deny that the natatorium was a spectacle of its own.

There was a slight pang in your chest, something like nostalgia or bittersweetness—resonating and heavy. It came with that distinct, sinking feeling in one’s stomach of “what could have been.”

You entered into the front doors of the natatorium and sighed at the swath of air conditioning that fell over you. Curiously, there was no one stationed at the reception desk; your original plan had been to drop off his phone here and head out, but with no one present for you to hand it to…

“Great,” you muttered under your breath and made your way to the doors that led deeper into the building.

When you swung open this set of doors, however, your body seemed to deflate at the utter weight of damp, all-encompassing heat in the inner pool chamber. You heard in the winter, when the weather was frigid and snow littered the ground, the floors and pool water in here were actually heated. Why they did not think to turn off the heat during a goddamn heatwave was beyond you. The grander space reached high above your head with the most appropriate acoustics to echo the sounds of water splashing, whistles shrieking, and voices chattering. You brushed a hand through your hair as sweat already began to bead on the back of your neck—you had only been in here for two seconds.

Where the hell could he be? You scanned the immediate area, eyes darting to any male with dark hair and a punk attitude.

According to intel you’d gathered from friends over the years, Seonghwa worked as a lifeguard here. It made logical sense; he was a member of your high school swim team, but was not particularly interested in swimming competitively in the collegiate league. Lifeguarding was not only a good way to continue swimming, but it also provided him with an income and a Basic Life Support certification.

“Hey, you’re Yn, right?”

You blinked, turning to find a shirtless man walking up to you. He had dark hair, too, but none of that so-called punk attitude you were searching for. His abs though… You coughed and fixed your eyes firmly on his face… his bright, smiley face. “Do I know you from somewhere?” was what came out of your mouth instead of something intelligent.

To his credit, he only chuckled. “Kind of,” he said with a sheepish grin, “I’m Mingyu. I don’t know if you remember me, but I went to Pledis Academy.”

You rifled through the files of memories in your brain, referencing the name, the face, and the school. His face had grown more mature since you last saw him, but he was definitely no longer the scrawny swim star you remembered. Recognition flooded into you and a smile stretched across your face. “Oh, shoot! I do remember you, Mingyu, oh my gosh. How have you been? You look” —you regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth, and you awkwardly trailed off. Of course, he looked good, but that was not why you were here. Get it together!— “great,” you finished, clutching Seonghwa’s phone with both of your hands now.

Mingyu laughed again, ducking his head as he swept a hand through his hair. “Oh, thanks—and you, too,” he swiftly added. “I can’t believe we haven’t bumped into each other all these years.”

“Yeah, that’s crazy,” you agreed, nodding your head. “It’s a pretty big campus.”

“Right? But you’d think we’d see each other at least in passing or at parties,” he said. “I don’t know why I never saw you out with Seonghwa.” Mingyu froze, as if someone had just pinched him (probably his own conscience). “Are you two still—I didn’t know if you were still together or not—”

Your smile hardened into an awkward rictus. There were plenty of people who misunderstood yours and Seonghwa’s relationship, but Mingyu? He knew you both from your high school days, when you were undoubtedly more hostile toward one another. You were suddenly reminded of your primary purpose for being here. “Oh, uh, we were never together or anything,” you drawled. Before Mingyu or you could fully let the mutual uneasiness settle into the grooves and heat of this room, you piped up, “Speaking of: have you seen Seonghwa around? He left his phone” —you lifted the silver-quilt case up as evidence— “at a friend’s and I was asked to deliver it.”

“Ah!” Mingyu’s tell-tale signs of discomfort erupted right in front of our eyes, everything from his adorable stammering to the physical turning of his body as he searched for a way out of this conversation. “Rightrightright! I forgot that Yunho sent me a text as a heads up; it completely slipped my mind.”

The expression on your face softened in sympathy. “It’s all good,” you assured him. Your brows twisted together, though, as you walked back his words. “Yunho told you? I didn’t know you knew each other.”

He bobbed his head in an affirmative. “Yup. We met through Hwa in freshman year, actually.” Mingyu swiveled over his shoulder and leaned closer to you so he could point out the far end of the pool. “He should be over there.”

Oh, easy.

You followed Mingyu’s line of sight toward the far end of the pool, and had to catch your own jaw before it dropped. Nope, not so easy.

As a former member of your high school girl’s swim team, you were no stranger to seeing people come out of a pool; but one thing you had concluded about it was that there was no person on earth who could get out of a pool completely elegantly. So then why the fuck were you gawking at the way Park Seonghwa had just appeared out of the water? As soon as his dark brunet head broke the surface, he was brushing the water out of his eyes and sliding one hand over his face to drag any remaining liquid out of the way. The pool water slipping off the slopes of his muscular back gleamed in the clear sunlight that shone through the glass panels far above as he swam freestyle over to the edge of the pool.

You hadn’t even realized that he had something clutched in his hand, something that he was swift to pass over to a little boy and his mother crouched at the poolside. He nodded and smiled as the mother spoke to him, her hand tapping her son’s shoulder, likely to thank Seonghwa for his service.

With the mother and son pair walking off, he braced his hands against the warm pool deck and pushed himself up and out of the water. Pool water cascaded down each crevice and slope of his body, catching on the folds of his swim trunks and his stomach muscles, before smacking against the concrete. He easily swept a foot onto the deck to stand up, and he brought his hands up over his face and through his hair again.

His gaze lifted from the weight of yours, and you wondered why the hell the temperature of the room just shot up ten degrees.

“Oh, he’s seen us,” chirped Mingyu as you pointedly looked away. He began to wave at Seonghwa with that beam so akin to a golden retriever. “Hwa! Look who’s here!”

Yeah, I think he’s seen who’s here, you thought to yourself while mustering up your pride and swallowing everything else in your mouth down. What the hell was wrong with you? You’d seen drenched, shirtless guys before—you were freaking standing next to one already! Granted, he wasn’t drenched, but you had also witnessed Seonghwa in the pool plenty of times in high school. You needed to get a grip—

“Well, this is a surprise,” he said when he was within earshot. Droplets of water continued to run down the surfaces of his body and leave wet footprints in his wake. Seonghwa eyed you with the stoicism you were used to, one that almost broke you out of your flustered state. (It had to be the heat and humidity in here. It had to be.) He inclined his chin at you and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m guessing Mingi or Yunho sent you.”

“Yup.” You thrust out your arm to give him his phone. “It was for the chocolate chip muffins Mingi’s mom makes.”

Seonghwa’s eyebrows lifted, unimpressed. He didn’t take the phone. “Yeah no, I didn’t think you did it out of the goodness of your heart or anything,” he drawled and turned away. “You’re gonna have to hold it for a few more minutes, though; I need to dry off before I electrocute myself.”

You made a face at his back, and with a wave to Mingyu, you strode after him. “Hello? Dude, you know that’s not how it works.”

“Do educate me, Ln,” was his flippant response. He went straight for a small alcove in the far left wall, one with two doorways facing each other—a women’s and a men’s locker room. You halted abruptly when he did, his hand pressed against the door to the men’s side. He sent you a look and his mouth was curved in a half-smirk. “This is the locker room, by the way. If you want a peek, I think you should ask first.”

You could have choked on your own oxygen. “I—I knew that! And I didn’t want a fucking peek, you perv.”

He merely laughed and disappeared into the locker room.

You were left to your own devices in the diabolical humidity of the inner natatorium. Absent-mindedly, you lifted your hand up to feel the back of your neck, the sides of your face, before swearing at the warmth just beneath your skin. With Seonghwa deserting you to dry off and, hopefully, put on a goddamn shirt, (all for a phone) you found something to entertain yourself. There was a bulletin board tacked on the wall between the doors littered with a myriad of posters and flyers and schedules. A section of the wall was dedicated solely to a set of polaroid pictures of each individual staff member, Seonghwa included. (It was a decent picture of him—decent.) This seemed to be a trend for all the businesses associated with and surrounding the school.

Your eyes roved over the media with mild interest, tucking knowledge of an intermediate level water aerobics class held on Saturday mornings, and noting the old flyer for lifeguarding auditions forgotten on the board. As the summer break crept up on all of the students, faculty, and inhabitants of the university town, the pool here needed to prepare by training a new class of lifeguards.

Faintly, you heard the door to your left yawn open, then close with a soft thump. “Thinking of brushin’ up some skills?”

You glanced over at him before turning your attention back to the poster you were reading. There was a light blue towel draped over one shoulder, his bare chest barely covered by a black tank top, and his dark hair still appeared slightly-mussed, the strands arranged in artful chaos. “Nah,” you said, “just curious. I'm not here much.”

“I know.” He stepped closer and stood beside you, sharing your view of the board.

The heat from his skin radiated against your arm and you fought the urge to lean toward him. Why would you want to go closer to more warmth anyway? You cleared your throat, passing his phone between you two a second time. “You should be glad I don't show my face here a lot. I might embarrass you in your own element,” you jested as he finally accepted his device from you.

A low chuckle slipped from his mouth. “You think you're so funny, huh?” he mused.

You were one breath away from whipping back something smart—or something stupidly obvious like “Because I am”—until his body casted a shadow over you. Sunlight had no choice but to gleam around the sides of his head and broad shoulders. Your breath caught in your throat, prey in a metal trap, as he leaned closer. (Prey had more survival instinct than you, at this moment.) Every contraction of your thoracic cavity was shallow and strained, lungs filling with the scent of him, all chlorine and sweat and musk.

“What—”

“Do it then,” he murmured, mouth level with your ear, “embarrass me.”

Then he grabbed the clipboard from behind your head and straightened as if nothing happened.

Your mouth went dry, and you swallowed to hopefully regain some of your dignity. What the hell… The words that you so easily wielded in his presence had retreated to the recesses of your brain, tucking themselves behind the featherlight weight of his breath at your ear and the heat of his gaze. Cowards.

Seonghwa cocked a brow at you as he flipped past one of the sheets of paper on the clipboard. “I know I’m pretty to look at, but don't you have places to be?”

Fuck, did you have places to be? “Right,” you drawled, making a show of squinting one eye at him. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of your face from your hairline, and his eyes lifted from the clipboard momentarily. You instinctively swiped the droplet away; you needed to get out of this infernal torture chamber. “Bye, I guess. Also, keep an eye on your fuckin’ phone, dude. This is the only time I’m playing Delivery Girl.”

He leaned against the alcove wall as you began walking away, his arms folding over his chest. “Yo, Ln.”

You threw him a look over your shoulder. “What is it now?”

“What time do you work until tonight?”

The question nearly had you running into some kid in an inflatable duck floatie. Your eyes widened as he swerved around you, and you parked yourself to the side of the room, as far away from the edge of the pool as you could. Your face contorted into confusion. “Who wants to know?”

Seonghwa said, “Hongjoong does.”

“Then Hongjoong can text me like a normal person?” A frown etched itself onto your face. You had no quarrel with Hongjoong, even if he sustained the tiff between you from last Saturday’s party. It was strange, though, that Hongjoong would think to get this little tidbit of information through Seonghwa of all people. Weird connections were being drawn in your head, and you weren’t sure what to make of them. “Whatever. Tell him that I get off at nine.”

He sent you a small salute before hooking the clipboard back into its place on the wall. “Aye-aye.”

You shook your head as you walked off, careful to avoid any wet puddles left in the textured concrete. Today was strange, to say the least; it had to be the heat.

You spoke too soon. The day only grew weirder.

“Good evening, Aurora County! Seems to me like we’re not quite out of the woods with this summer storm.” There was a crackly laugh cutting through the decade-old speakers in your earbuds before Aurora County’s favorite (and only) weatherman continued, “We’ll be braving another bout of showers tonight, and then it should be clear skies and beach weather here on out ‘til June—”

“—and then he said to me, ‘I don’t really go on dates with nerds!’” you recalled in a voice that was deeper and more stupid-sounding than your normal voice. Your hands gesticulated in time with your narration, fingers waving around to overstate the complete absurdity of it all.

Kim Doyoung, your senior and the tutoring partner who got stuck with you on this late, rainy night shift, twisted his facial muscles into the dictionary definition of disgust. You wondered what one had to do to gain facial flexibility the way Doyoung could scrunch up his entire face like so. “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way!” you exclaimed and threw your hands into the air. The movement ripped your earbuds from your ears, and you discarded the wires in a haphazard heap on your laptop keys. There was no use in keeping quiet; at this point, the two of you had Quill Library all to yourselves, unless you counted the student librarians chained to their reception desks in the lobby. “And you know what’s crazy? Guess who was sitting right next to us.”

Doyoung’s eyes were so wide, you could see your reflection in the whites of them. “Who?”

“Seonghwa—and that girl from Seulgi’s party on Saturday!” At this point in the evening, Doyoung was caught up on all of your so-called “lore” from this past week. You nodded your head with vigor when he started slapping his leg. “Exactly. And when this asswipe says his piece, both me and Seonghwa say at the same time, like, who said this was a fricking date? Then, Justin starts getting on Seonghwa’s case, for some reason, and I snap at him. He says some bullshit about why it was called matchmaking if this isn’t a date, and Seonghwa reminds him that the flyer actually says ‘friendship bracelets’ instead.” You gestured with your hand, adding, “Of course, with more snark.”

“But of course,” Doyoung replied with a downturned mouth. He took a sip from his thermos, wincing at the steam wafting out of its mouth. How that coffee was still scalding after four hours was a mystery to you. “Wait, so Seonghwa spoke up for you?”

“Yup,” you said. You leaned your cheek against your fist as his question fully digested. “I guess it’s a little strange to think about, considering what you already know about our relationship. I mean, we kind of talked about it afterward and it felt weird to actually agree on things, for once.”

In an action that nearly had your eyes bulging out of your head, you watched Doyoung return his thermos to the table and place his hand on your shoulder. “Yn, I might need to hold your hand while asking this…”

Dread was the weight of an iron anchor sinking in your gut. It festered there, rusting, and it took far too much energy to haul it up out of the water. You grimaced, glancing at the hand on your shoulder, then back at him. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t you think you guys could actually get along if you got over yourselves?”

You blinked at him. “Is this a genuine question?”

His expression dropped into a deadpan in time with his hand slipping off your shoulder. “Yes, and I want a genuine answer.”

“Ah.” You scratched at your jaw, then reached over to pause the video that you abandoned earlier. You were tempted to make the joke of how The Emotionally-constipated Doyoung was actually prompting an emotionally intelligent conversation, but the thought dashed away as you fell into the gravity of his question. “Sincerely? Yeah.”

It had never been a question of whether you and Seonghwa could get along; it was simply that the dynamic between you had been tainted from the start.

You saw the lines of his face and the curve of his posture soften. “Then why don't you?”

You pulled your eyes away from him at the sensation of heat crawling up your neck. That was embarrassment in tangible form, your nervous system coming up to bat. “It’s complicated,” you said, and quickly tacked on, “and that's not a copout answer. It legitimately is like” —your mouth shut. How were you supposed to articulate this in a way that someone outside yours and Seonghwa's history could understand? “When we were younger, I couldn't see him as anyone but the person my mom thought was always better than me. It… screws with you, y'know? And it's not fair to Seonghwa or me that that is how we grew up looking at each other, but—I dunno. Our dynamic has always been like a cat fight and it feels weird if we're not at odds.”

“Because being each other's competition is what feels natural.”

Your head dipped. “Yeah.”

Doyoung loosened a sigh from the back of his throat and he shifted in his seat. “And you've never… thought about being friends with him? Bonding over that mutual pressure?”

“Not really,” you confessed. “When you're a kid who just wants your parents to be proud, you do what you have to. There were moments I saw him as someone other than the physical rendition of all my mother's expectations and my nightmares, though. I mean—we still grew up together.” There was a laugh, and then your voice dropped off a cliff. You sat stock-still for a moment and let the epiphany swallow you whole.

Your counterpart allowed the silence of realization to engulf you. Seonghwa was your mirror image in more ways than not. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that you were both just kids at the time, and that ultimately, you had grown up together. (But now you were older. Would you continue to look at him and see the past, or could you make room for the man he was growing into?)

In the corner of your eye, you spotted movement. Both you and Doyoung turned to the entryway of this area in the library, and it was as if the universe was about to call you out on your thoughts.

Doyoung looked back at you with wide eyes. “Speak of the Devil,” he whispered, head whipping back in Seonghwa’s direction, then to you.

You wanted to slap your hand to your forehead. “Please be chill,” you groaned quietly to him. Over Doyoung’s shoulder, you watched Seonghwa quietly take a seat on the outskirts of the seating area, furthest from where yours and Doyoung’s table was. Wait, wasn’t it Hongjoong who asked what time you got off work tonight? You peeked over at the time in the corner of your laptop—8:24PM. Huh.

For a minute or two, you and Doyoung simply let the clock tick away in silence.

Then there was a nudge at your arm. “Go ask him if he needs help.”

You jolted. “What? He doesn’t need help—trust me,” you hissed back. “He already took Gen Chem in freshman year and passed with flying colors.”

“I hate that you know that.”

Oh. You pursed your lips together. “Yeah, me too.”

Doyoung sighed and it was loud enough to echo against the high ceiling. He spun your chair around and practically shoved you out of it. “You've been deployed, Yn.”

“This is abuse of power,” you muttered, but gathered your body, ego, and all other accompanying parts, and rounded the table. You could not comprehend why your heart rate began to crescendo with each footstep you took in Seonghwa's direction. There had never been this kind of hesitation before—an uneasiness of suddenly being aware of too much—only an insistent balking to interact with the bane of your childhood.

Seonghwa didn't look up until your shadow sliced over his notebook page. It almost made your eyes twitch. “Funny seeing you here,” he drawled as he leaned back in his seat to peer up at you.

You arched both of your brows, unimpressed. “There is a distinct lack of Kim Hongjoong, I see,” you said and gestured around at the nearly-empty room.

“Yeah, well, he had a conflict.”

You rolled your eyes and slid into the seat across from him. “You could've just asked me. Y'know, like a normal person.”

“Sure I could've, Ln.”

“Anyways,” you muttered, scratching your head and then gesturing behind you in Doyoung's direction, “my senior's tasked me with seeing if you need help with anything. I told him you probably don't, because this is a general chemistry tutor session and—”

“Soyeon says you got full marks on the Krebs Cycle portion of the midterm.”

The words that just spilled out of his mouth were experiencing a traffic jam when entering your brain. When did he and Soyeon talk about that? Why would Soyeon tell him that? And why would he—it hit you.

Your face must have said it all, because Seonghwa was already taking up a defensive position by folding his arms over his chest. “Don't make a big deal out of this.”

You pressed a finger to your lips. “I'm not,” you swore, then lowered your hand to lace with the other over the table. You were telling the truth, as surprising as it was for both you and Seonghwa. In your youth, you would have been flooded with jubilation at the news that you excelled where he underperformed. But as you sat across from him in the harsh library lighting, you felt nothing but a light ‘Oh.’

You were expecting the warm satisfaction in your chest, the smug contentment making your fingers jittery. Those sensations never came.

Not so important after all, huh?

The side of his cheek shifted like he was biting the inside of it. “So no snarky remarks? No celebrating?”

Were you really so bad? You shrugged. “If that's what you want, I'll provide it. But—you know…” you trailed off in thought, an absent-minded laugh tumbling out. “I don't think we've ever admitted to each other our shortcomings directly. They've only ever been told to us through other people.”

Seonghwa's arms uncrossed, expression softening. “Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded. “It's cool that you came to me for help, though. I think I had a dream about this once—”

“Don't push it, Ln.”

A grin split your face just then—a true moment of jubilation—and you could have sworn something flickered across his own face.

You didn't push it. Instead, you and Seonghwa hunkered down in the corner of the room for the next couple of hours breaking down the target section. In the quiet, abandoned floor of Quill Library, rain drummed against the windows plastered with the dark night. At some point, Doyoung excused himself to head home, leaving you and Seonghwa beneath the grating overhead LEDs and the scratchy handwriting on the notebook passed between you.

The clock hands struck about ten o'clock when you decided to call it quits. Rain continued to batter the streets of the KQ University campus, and you stood beneath the large, stone archway that led into the library, watching the glow of the lights from inside scatter across the drenched cobblestones.

Seonghwa yanked his jacket hood over his head. “Hey, come on, I'll give you a ride home,” he said to you, nudging your arm with the back of his hand before gesturing to the left.

You were not about to argue when it was pouring rain at ten o'clock and you were without an umbrella.

The two of you crashed into your corresponding sides of the car, breaths fogging up the windows and mirrors, seats and backpacks and skin damp from either sweat or rain. You shook any errant droplets out of your hair as Seonghwa cranked the engine on. His phone connected to the car radio the moment he began backing out from his parking space, and the vibrant instrumentals of a Bruno Mars song came grooving out of the speakers.

Seonghwa turned the volume down, and you leaned back in your seat and watched the streetlights blur like watercolors against the car window.

“Thanks, by the way.” The glow of the stoplight was crimson red across his face. “I found tonight really helpful.”

You pursed your mouth as you traded glances with him. “Yeah sure, man,” you said. “I'm glad you found it helpful. I think I'm just surprised you even—I dunno—asked me of all people.”

He passed you another glance as his visage turned bright green with the traffic light. “You know I respect you, right?”

“Are you okay?” you blurted out. “Like are you dying or something?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes so hard, you were sure he could see his brain up there. If he wasn't driving, you knew he would be hitting his head against the steering wheel. “Good grief, Yn, I'm trying to be sincere.”

You coughed, shrinking down in your seat. “And I'm being sincere too,” you retorted. “We haven't been this civil toward each other since—”

“Never?” he offered.

“Yes,” you said. You shared yet another look before he returned his eyes to the road. Your own gaze went to the lone C-3PO figurine on his dash and you balled up your hands in your lap, wondering how they had gotten so clammy. “I—respect you, too.”

“How badly did it hurt to say that?”

Your head whipped around. “Now who's being the insincere one?”

Seonghwa chuckled and the corner of his mouth curled up. “Touché,” he said. “I’m being serious though. I wish…”

You swallowed as you stared out the front windshield. It didn't take a therapist to fill in the blank: I wish we hadn't started off how we did. I wish we grew up differently. I wish we had grown up as friends.

The car tires crunched slowly over the rainy gravel outside of your house a few minutes later. The front windows still emitted a warm, familiar light from within, signalling to you the consciousness status of some of your housemates. The windshield wipers continued to thunk, thunk, thunk away at the ceaseless rain against glass as you prepared yourself to cross the driveway without cover.

You stopped just as your fingers curled around the door handle. “By the way, isn't your guy missing his guy?” you asked, wagging a finger in the direction of C-3PO. You were, of course, referring to R2-D2, the blue and white droid renowned for its resourcefulness and adorableness.

Seonghwa shifted in his seat, eyebrows lifting in pleasant surprise at the question. “Oh,” he said, “well, I guess I just haven't found the right moment to get him.”

Ah. You tugged the door open. “‘Night then,” you chirped, and flashed him with the Spock salute.

“You're such a fuckin’ nerd, oh my god—”

You threw your head back in a cackle as you slammed the car door, then bolted for your front porch.

In the eleventh grade, you bombed a Science Olympiad competition. The Science Olympiad was a high school organization you had been a part of since the moment you stepped foot onto campus in freshman year. As a junior, you were a seasoned professional, an ace card in the deck, a valued player in the roster—until you fumbled every event at this specific meet.

To your credit, most of your teammates also met failure or mediocre success; but that was not something your mother cared about.

Park Seonghwa knew this fact like the back of his hand. He had recognized the sheer panic in your eyes during each event, the harried nature of each attempt to reconcile your mistakes mid-event, the defeat and anxiety pouring out of you in energy that could not be contained in that high-tension ball you called your body.

The bus ride home had been dead silent. The car ride in his mom's car was filled only by the muffled sounds of the world passing by. The worst part was seeing you at school the day afterward. You didn't only look exhausted, you looked sapped—of energy, a will, everything. He never said anything; he didn't have the heart or the balls to.

When the clock hit four on the dot, marking the beginning of after school practice, Seonghwa gathered in room A08 along with the rest of your teammates. He barely tuned into whatever the president was saying because your seat across the room was empty and they were taking roll call.

“I'll go look for her,” he offered as soon as your name was called. His stomach twisted into a painful knot, knowing. Maybe you weren't friends, but it didn't mean he couldn't try to save you some dignity. Seonghwa was already up and out of his seat before anyone else could acknowledge or offer assistance.

There were a myriad of possible places you could be and he would check all of them, barring the girl's bathroom. You had to still be on campus, though, because he saw your bike still locked up when he passed by. You would not have gone home at this hour—at least one of your parents would be home, thus, making it the last place you wanted to be. Minutes flew by as he zipped around different spots on campus. He peeked into other open classrooms, asked your band friends if you were in any parts of the music building, and ducked into alcoves around school grounds. The couple of times he called your number, it went to voicemail immediately; there was no point in trying to text you.

When he reached the swimming pool on the far end of campus, his hopes were not high. He had even broken a sweat, the skin beneath the collar of his hoodie warm and damp from perspiration. You had quit the girl’s swim team last year after an incident with the asshole coach, and it didn’t make much sense that you would hide here of all places. Seonghwa was in no place to judge you for quitting, but your parents miraculously accepted it as long as you took up another extra-curricular. From what he heard, you were tutoring now.

As he stepped foot onto the barren, outdoor pool deck, he paused just as he opened his mouth to call out your name.

The sound of a gasp cleaved through the air—not a gasp of surprise, but a gasp for air. A broken sob rattled after it, followed by another, and another, a cascade of ruin and emotion that no one needed a label for.

Seonghwa froze in place. The distinct feeling that he was intruding swept over him. What if it’s not her, he thought and slowly crept closer, toward the sound. He would make sure that you—or whoever it was—was alright.

But as he took his measured steps, he spied a familiar head of hair around the furthest corner of the locker rooms building. He recognized the red stripe running down your track pants, the pair that you wore on Thursdays when you had your racquet ball class. Your shoulders trembled like a city on a fault line, a fissure in the earth that was once the unbreakable resolve he knew you to possess.

He had never seen or heard you cry before, let alone like this—like every single pressure point had conspired together to finally make you crack. He despised it, hated it. Out of all the people he knew, he never believed you could be broken.

Seonghwa backed away. He didn’t make his presence known to you and he would never bring it up again. This was your private moment; he was probably the last person you wanted to see. He made his way back to the meeting room with a discomfort filling up his chest, and that presented itself outwardly as solemnity.

His teammates all glanced up at his return, and the president asked, “Where is she?”

“She’s fine,” Seonghwa replied while sliding back into his seat. “She just needs a minute.”

“But we have to tighten up on practice—”

Seonghwa’s expression hardened. “Give her. A Minute.”

The president’s mouth snapped shut, and nothing further was said on the matter. However, fifteen minutes later, heads turned again to watch you stumble into the classroom while wiping your cheek, your eyes no longer red and your breathing back to normal. Seonghwa tried not to stare as you muttered out an apology and took your seat across the room from him. You shouldn’t have to apologize, he thought.

He tried not to flinch when he remembered what your crying sounded like; tried not to let the anger he harbored at your mother fester into his own tone when he spoke; and tried not to mention at all that he had caught you at a moment of weakness, because if there was anything that would make you feel worse, it would certainly be that.

There were many things you could read about Jeon Soyeon. After living with her for a solid three years and suffering a glorious amount together through the trenches that were pre-medicine weedout classes, one might say you forged a bond only few could relate to. It was one of the primary reasons you believed that she had been itching to ask you something for an entire week.

You broke away from the lineup of dish detergents on the shelf before you, their rainbow of labels plastered with claims of killing 99.9999999% of grease molecules on your dishes to varying degrees of truthfulness. “Alright,” you said, whirling on your friend and roommate, which caused her to freeze up like a deer in headlights. “Just spit it out already.”

Soyeon’s hands lifted in surrender. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not make me resort to unsavory methods.” The bright white LEDs above your head washed the entire store in their light, illuminating the company’s specific shade of red plastered on the walls to contrast the white of everything else.

“It’s just that…”

“Uh-huh,” you muttered, turning back to the shelf to pluck your house’s choice of dish soap from the shelf. The translucent blue liquid sloshed inside with a slightly higher viscosity than water, but looser than hand soap. You dumped the bottle into the red basket hanging from your arm filled with the other items you and Soyeon were tasked with retrieving by your housemates.

“Doyoung told me that Seonghwa came to the tutor center during one of your shifts last week.”

You paused in the middle of the aisle, then recovered your stride and continued out into the main walkway. Was everybody talking to everybody but you, all of a sudden? “Yeah,” you drawled, sending her a narrowed-eye look from over your shoulder, “and by the way, I can’t believe you told him that I got the entire Krebs Cycle section right.”

Soyeon deadpanned at you and fell into step beside you as you began to wander in an aimless direction around the store. “In my defense, he asked first! I had a feeling about his score, and you know that I’m not gonna miss out on a chance to brag about my friend, so I told him about just that section.”

In truth, you weren’t upset that Soyeon disclosed this information to Seonghwa. Of course, it would have been different if you hadn’t done as well on that section, but it ultimately led to that strangely civil evening between the two of you. Since then, there had been two weeks’ worth of society gatherings and Trivia Nights, all of which passed by relatively normally, excluding the fact that the jabs you and Seonghwa exchanged were a little less biting. Not that anyone had pointed it out yet though.

You made a turn into one of the many toy aisles in this section of the store. “So what about the tutor center?” you asked, beelining to the Lego sets on the shelves.

“Getting you guys to talk about your feelings about each other is like pulling teeth,” she groaned behind you.

“I mean, a straightforward question helps,” you mused. (‘Straightforward,’ you advocated for, until someone like Jeong Yunho asked you the most straightforward question known to man and you declined to answer in exchange for a tequila shot.) You shoved your hands into the pockets of your shorts and eyed the Lego replicas of real life items: a typewriter, a flower vase, a human-sized Boba Fett helmet—

“Well, have you ever thought that you’re projecting your attraction for Seonghwa as a dislike for him instead?”

Your hand came to a stop. (Was there a tequila shot you could drink now?) What was with everyone asking you about your relationship with Seonghwa lately?

“See!”

“No, no, no—I can answer this! I can answer this,” you spluttered out defensively. You could see Soyeon bracing her hands on her hips next to you while you maintained your focus on the number of Lego bricks labeled on a box. “I can’t believe I’m being interrogated in a Target shopping aisle,” you muttered under your breath, blowing an errant piece of hair out of your eyes.

“Okay, I don't think I've ever thought of it in that way. Maybe there's some cognitive dissonance there with associating him with a lot of the negative things in our past, but—I don't know! He’s… sure, I think he is an objectively decent guy, but he’s not my type.” When you faced Soyeon, she had her arms crossed this time, an eyebrow arched. “I’m guessing you don’t agree,” you huffed.

“I really don’t want to bring up your Hinge history” —you opened your mouth to fire back a retort, but she held up her hand to stop you— “and I won’t. But consider that maybe your obsession with the two of you being in the same league has a deeper meaning than simply his being the bane of your childhood. Like, you guys have so much common footing, and I’ve gotta be honest, girl—you look at him and talk about him a lot.”

Your mouth curved into an elongated frown. You didn’t look at him ‘a lot,’ right? Not so much that it was obvious… right? If anything, the reason you looked at him so much was because—well, even you couldn’t come up with a bullshit excuse for that one. If you supposedly couldn’t stand the sight of him, then why were your eyes always drawn to him like a magnet with the force of the Earth’s poles? Even gravitational acceleration could not beat the speed at which you found him in a crowded lecture hall.

The loud buzzing of a phone tore through the white noise buzzing from the overhead lights. It made you jump out of your skin, and you fumbled around in your pockets to take out your phone.

The caller ID glared up at you like the universe’s favorite joke: Park Vader.

Soyeon peered over your shoulder and snorted. “I forgot you called him that; you’re such a dork, Yn.”

“What?” you lamented. “I thought it was clever, ‘cause he was my sworn enemy!”

She shook her head to herself as she turned around and walked a straight line out of the aisle. That left you alone with the buzzing phone in your hands, the caller on the other side undoubtedly waiting, too. You couldn’t remember the last time you received a phone call from him. Was it that one time you lost half the group during a society outing? Or was it high school graduation when he couldn’t find where his parents had gone?

You brushed those thoughts aside and accepted the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, are you free right now?”

“Uhh yeah,” you dragged out, peering around you for anyone in the vicinity. You kept the call off speaker despite no one being near. “Did you need something?”

The sounds of paper flipping and crinkling met your ears through the speaker. In your mind’s eye, you imagined him propped behind his desk and rummaging through his notebook graffitied with ballpoint pen. “That question about which substrate the antagonist functions most closely to…?”

Your brain flicked on its lights and you mentally rifled through the files labeled with ‘Biochemistry.’ Something caught your eye at the other end of the aisle, and you tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder. “Oh,” you said, “it’s succinyl-CoA because the compound inhibits the formation of citrate. The other options can be involved in the inhibition of the Krebs Cycle, but ultimately, succinyl-CoA is the only one that’s involved with the actual condensation into citrate.”

A sigh erupted from his end of the call, his breathy tone tickling at your ear and making you think of the goddamn natatorium. He was quiet for a second as you scoured the shelves lined with Lego figurines of characters from movies. The dull scratching of his ballpoint pen was loud enough for his microphone to pick up; it was a soothing sound.

“I probably could have known that from straight-up memorization, huh,” he finally said.

You removed a box with an R2-D2 figurine from its hook. “Maybe,” you conceded. “You can only memorize so much until it gets to a point, y’know, where knowing the basics and applying them is more useful than committing every little detail to memory.” Five bucks? This tiny thing should be two dollars maximum, you thought, but tossed it into the basket anyway.

He must have heard the resounding crash of weighted cardboard and gravity, because he was quick to pipe up, “Where even are you right now?”

“Target,” you answered simply. “Soyeon’s somewhere around here, too.” The statement was paired with a swivel of your head—wherever she had wandered off to, you hadn't a clue.

“Oh, did Seulgi make you guys go get stuff for the car wash thing tomorrow?”

“Nah, this is all Lillian's doing,” you replied with more mirth than resentment. “Errands in exchange for coming to support us by bringing her minivan tomorrow.”

An indignant sound crackled into your ear. “That's gotta be cheating.”

“Sorry, that I have friends, Park,” you quipped back, snickering. “Get ready to have your ass handed to you.”

“By you? Not a chance.”

You hummed absentmindedly, dallying toward the end of the aisle to begin your search for your friend. “Not by ‘chance,’” you corrected, “but by the army of our girls in bikinis.”

“Is that including you?”

You made a face. “Duh. Wait why—”

A chuckle resonated through your ear, the heat from your phone meshing with the warmth in your cheek. “See you and your bikini tomorrow, Ln.”

“Seonghwa, what the—” He hung up.

Your face ignited as you ripped the phone out from between your ear and shoulder. As expected, the End Call screen grinned back up at you. There was no way you heard what you thought you heard… but then again, there had been the pool before that, and the other car ride way before that…

Soyeon appeared from around the corner with her phone facing upward as if she herself was just on a call with someone. She peered at you curiously, her brows crinkling together. “Are you okay?”

“I think Seonghwa's been flirting with me, Soyeon,” you said. The phone was still hot in your hand. His goddamn contact was still on the screen.

She raised her hands up to the ceiling as if in prayer. “Oh, thank Mother Seulgi, you're finally awake.”

Seulgi's cul-de-sac was busier than Greek row during Rush.

Perched up high in her second story bedroom window, you could breathe in the expanse of bodies milling about, the cars slowly rolling into the dead-end street, and the dozens upon dozens of buckets and sponges piled high with mountains of soap suds. The pre-health society's car washing fundraiser was well under way, even beneath the scathing wrath of the late spring sun.

“Good morning, Aurora County!” you heard the weatherman's voice carry through one of Seulgi's roommate's radios in the house. They were probably holed up in their room down the hall, deep in a cat nap and unaware of the party around them. “Well, it's gonna be another hot one today. Temperatures are looking to soar to the mid-nineties and hundreds by late afternoon. Make sure to stay hydrated and apply that sunscreen, folks!”

You had been finishing up with some preparations inside the house while everyone else was busy getting the event started. You might have missed the moment everyone tore off their shirts and hosed the first car, but there was plenty of time for one more.

Every conversation that had transpired last night replayed freshly in your mind as you sped down the stairs and out the front door. If you were to be wholly honest, you weren't sure where your head was. This was new to you—the idea that the tension between you and Seonghwa could be anything but a rivalry. Your pulse throbbed at the junction of your throat and jaw, your palms clammy as the midday sun roasted you from even the shade of the porch.

“Yn! Get your butt down here!” came Chaeryeong's shout, her arm flailing around to beckon you over to the Chevy SUV at the mercy of her water gun.

Soyeon cupped her hands around her grinning mouth: “And take that shirt off before I do it for you!”

You let out a loud laugh, descending the porch step by slow step, teasing your fingers at the hem of your T-shirt. “Don’t any of you have manners? Where's my 'please?’”

“Please” —your head whipped over to find Wooyoung lounging in a nearby lawn chair, his shirt unbuttoned and splayed out on either side of him, eyes boasting a pair of heart-shaped glasses, and shooting you a toothy grin— “take your shirt off. For me, of course, and definitely not for anyone else.”

You guffawed, fully amused. “For you, and only you, my friend.”

“That is the goddamn spirit—oop! Gotta go!” Wooyoung rocketed out of the chair as Seulgi came barreling out of the garage fifteen feet behind him, a menacing scowl fixed on her face and a slipper raised over her head.

“Get to work, Jung Woooyoung, or so help me!” Seulgi huffed as she stood on the lawn just before you, hands braced on her jean short-clad hips. She turned halfway toward you. “Ready to rake in some money, Yn? Taeyong and the boys have gotten a headstart, but it won't help them for long,” she said, the grin on her face filled with more teeth than sportsmanship.

“Yes, ma'am,” you chirped dutifully.

She pointed in the direction of a cobalt blue sedan rolling into the lot near the entrance of the cul-de-sac proper, where you saw Lia already stationed. You sent her a salute, stole a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses off a nearby table, and jogged across the street toward Lia. The latter gladly welcomed you to the area she affectionately called “The Griddle,” thanks to the fact that she was in the flat, open expanse of the street. Her only reprieve was the big, floppy sun hat crowning her head and maybe the clipboard tucked under her arm.

She waved over the sedan to an open spot in front of one of the other houses, and to your surprise, as they rolled down the window, you were met by a familiar face.

“Long time, no see, Mingyu,” you greeted pleasantly, leaning over the window sill. You nodded in hello to the guy sitting in the passenger seat, as well.

Mingyu beamed with a kind of boyishness that made you nostalgic for high school, a rare feat. “Hey, Yn,” he said. “My friend Seungkwan and I thought we'd come to support.”

Seungkwan, the passenger, waved to you with a bright energy. “Nice to meet the girl Mingyu hasn't stopped talking about.”

“Aish—shut up, dude!” Mingyu stammered, cheeks darkening from his friend's exposé.

You giggled, the sound spilling out of your mouth from the slight second-hand embarrassment and feeling a little flattered. Sure, Mingyu was good-looking and seemed like a regular Prince Charming, but you weren't sure he was someone you were interested in at this moment. (Or was exactly your type, as Soyeon would say.) Your smile was cordial, bordering on polite. “Ah well, thanks for coming out to show your support. We really appreciate it.”

“Of course!” he was quick to recover. “Do you guys want us to sit outside and wait, or…?”

“Either is fine,” you said with a shrug and took a couple steps back toward Lia. You needed to locate a bucket and sponges and maybe even a hose before you could get started. “Make yourselves comfortable, guys.”

You shimmied your way over to Lia's side. “Hey, is there any extra soap and water around here?”

Lia hissed through her teeth and tapped her chin with the back of her pencil. “Ooh,” she murmured, “you know what? Let me find someone who can get you that—”

“I got it, Lia.”

Your heart palpitated, your lungs seized. For some reason, his voice sounded rough around the edges, and there were only so many instances when you could use heat as an excuse for delusions like this. You swore to god that Park Seonghwa just appeared out of nowhere, setting two buckets of sudsy sponges at your feet, but not before peering at you through long lashes with the intention to make you feel warmth from a source other than the sun.

His shoulders were already well bronzed in his tank top, the fabric loose to give his skin room to breathe. He carded a hand through his damp hair and looked you up and down. “I was promised a bikini.”

You blinked, and for a moment, you nearly forgot who you were. The attitude came zipping back in a second. “Actually, you were promised a proper beating.”

“I could deal with that, too,” he drawled back, arms braiding across his chest.

(Lia quietly excused herself, likely to go run off in Soyeon and Seulgi's direction with the freshest of news. It was almost too easy to give you both privacy; how obsessed did you have to be with one another to forget that the world continued on when you were together?)

You flashed him a saccharine smile and bent slightly to pick up the buckets he’d delivered. “Well, thanks for the stuff. I'm gonna go clean Mingyu's car now.” Before he could even process what you said, you were already walking yourself back in the direction of your assigned car. Somewhere behind you, you registered the sound of Yeosang calling out for Seonghwa to help with a new car coming in.

When you reached the sedan again, you set the buckets by the driver’s side, the car now left to its own devices while Mingyu and Seungkwan loitered on the curbside nearby.

“Yn, d’you need help?” Chaeryeong jogged over in her sandals and flipped her hair over her shoulder with a big grin on her face. The water gun she wielded earlier had disappeared.

“Definitely,” you said back, nodding. You took the heart-shaped glasses off and handed them to her. “Hold these, please.”

Your fingers once again met the bottom hem of your T-shirt. A familiar sensation warmed at the side of your head akin to a light burn. Your eyes wandered in the direction of the stare that seared into you, and your pulse throttled up against your skin when you made eye contact with Seonghwa from across the street. He had the door of his newest vehicle propped open and half his body drenched from chest to waist already, but he halted any activity as if he sensed what was about to happen.

You didn’t know what was wrong with you, but you held his stare while you tugged your shirt up and over your head. Immediately, your skin breathed a sigh of relief at being freed from the fabric incubator that was your cover-up. You tossed the garment onto the side of the road where a drink cooler had been left.

Chaeryeong suddenly coughed and leaned toward you, passing the sunglasses back into your hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Seonghwa look so intense.”

That phantom burn continued to flare against your head. You stole a quick glance back in that direction, your heart rate rocketing when you caught the way his eyes flickered over the expanse of exposed skin framed by a baby blue bikini top.

“Then you should see how locked-in he gets when doing exams,” you joked to Chaeryeong. It was a pathetic attempt at dismissing the fluttering in your stomach.

She shot you a look, her mouth pursing. “No, girl, I think he wants to do you like one.”

If there was one way to get you to shut up with haste, it was that. Your jaw snapped shut before it could fully unhinge. No way. Nowaynowaynoway—you hiked your sunglasses up on top of your head to push your hair out of your face. All of a sudden, you were hyper-aware of the presence across the street from you; and for the first time, it wasn’t because you were solely looking to school his ass at something. When had you become so conscious about him looking at you?

You forced the thought to the back of your mind; in fact, you shoved it under a mental floorboard, hammered it in with a mental nail, and draped a mental rug over it. There were more important things to deal with at present and who were you if not a champion of absolute focus?

It truly proved to be a challenge for your mental faculties. As the late morning simmered into high noon, you and your society-mates must have cleaned about a few dozen cars. If the pre-health society did not collect at least a couple thousand in donations by the end of the day, you would declare your retirement. The heat was beginning to wear on you and everyone else, the sun’s rays beating down from above while the hot asphalt beneath discharged heat waves, completing a proper assault on two fronts.

You swiped the fat droplet of sweat rolling down the side of your face with your arm, despite it mixing with the layer of perspiration already settled atop your skin. You, Soyeon, and some of the other girls just finished up with a fraternity brother’s dirt- and dust-slicked truck, and were making your way back toward home base.

Soyeon slumped one of her arms around your shoulders before her head came tumbling down next. “Man, the tan lines we’re gonna end up with are going to be diabolical,” she whined. “And right before summer, too! What am I supposed to do in a backless dress and my body’s in three different shades?”

“I don’t know, but you’re still hot regardless of how many shades your body is,” you mused back with a cheeky grin. The two of you stood within range of the front lawn sprinklers, which had been so graciously activated by one of Seulgi’s housemates. You had already spotted some of the boys making full use of the cool water when they took their break earlier.

“Have I ever told you I love you?”

You chuckled and patted her head, your movements sun-soaked and lethargic. “Love you, too, babe.”

A high-pitched yelp pierced the air and the sound echoed against the surrounding houses of the cul-de-sac. You and Soyeon tracked the noise to the boys’ side of the street, where Wooyoung was scrambling away from the group like his ass was on fire, his hair and body dripping wet. The culprit, it seemed, was Yunho, of all people.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, “who let Yunho have the hose?” A small chuckle left your throat as you watched the chaos unfold. The wicked, toothy grin slathered over Yunho's face was enough to tell anyone in the vicinity that he meant Business.

The trajectory of the hose spray continued on down the line before it reached the side of a black four-wheeler. Someone shouted from behind the trunk, before Seonghwa and Hongjoong emerged, their bodies sopping wet from head to toe.

“Yah! Jeong Yunho,” Hongjoong cried with a shaking fist before flicking off the water from his arms and legs.

But your attention fixed upon the man next to him with the magnetism of an MRI scanner to a slab of metal. You couldn't rationalize how the world slowed, but when Seonghwa yanked the black tank top—drenched and clinging to every crevice of his body—over his head, it definitely happened in slow motion. He shook out his dripping wet hair and scooped it backward and out of his face with one hand.

Your head whipped away before he could notice you were watching—or drooling, for that matter. (What was wrong with you? You swiped at the corner of your mouth to thumb away the saliva there.) If anyone asked, the reason your face and neck were so warm was because of the burning ball of plasma reigning over your heads.

You heard your name being called out from your left, and you and Soyeon waited for Seulgi to come to a stop by you both. “Hey, what's up?” you asked her.

There was a clipboard in her hand, similar to the one Lia had been holding onto earlier. “You remember where my laundry room is, right?” When you nodded an affirmative, she continued, “Would you mind doing me a huge favor and grabbing a stack of the smaller towels on the rack in there?”

“Oh, I'll go with you,” Soyeon piped up.

Seulgi made a sound that had both you and Soyeon freezing in place. A beat of silence passed between them, almost like telepathic communication.

“I just remembered” —Soyeon gave your shoulder a squeeze and began stepping away in the direction of a nearby cooler— “I was gonna go restock some of the coolers with White Claws. Sorry, Yn!”

“Thanks, Yn!” Seulgi chirped. “Remember that the laundry door has a weird lock—”

You sent her a thumb's up. “I remember,” you assured her, then made your way up the porch steps. You shook your head with a scrunched nose. That was… interesting.

The laundry room was infamous for its dysfunctional locking mechanism. You and the girls from the society had plenty of slumber parties in this house, and thus, knew very well that the laundry room in the basement would slam shut and jam on the inside. There was always a little doorstop to keep it open, but at times, the house's occupants would remove the doorstop if one of the machines were running.

You wormed your way through Seulgi's house toward the basement entrance, cutting beneath the stairs and into the house's foundation. The small fan blew out over the room with a gentle and low breeze, and afternoon sunlight poured in through the slim windows.

The laundry room door was tucked away on the far side of the room, and you paused just outside the door. Huh. It was closed.

Carefully, you pulled it open and peeked inside. No machine was running. You yanked the cord by the door to turn on the small strip light overhead; you couldn't spot the Ditto Pokémon doorstop either.

“Don't be stupid,” you muttered to yourself, and closed the door while you went around the basement to look for a replacement doorstop. You made a loop around the basement and checked the cabinets by the pool table, eyeing a folded chair shoved in haphazardly with the pool cues.

The chair was chosen, and you propped it open between the door and the doorjamb, preventing yourself from being locked inside. “Why is this door so goddamn heavy,” you pondered aloud, scrutinizing the way the weight of the laundry door pushed the folding chair until it was flush against the doorway.

Whatever. That would be fine for now.

You clambered in through the opening and went straight for the rack at the furthest end of the room. How many towels was Seulgi asking for? If it was the small ones, it might have just been for drying the cars, perhaps…

Your thoughts slowed as the sound of footsteps resounded against the basement stairs. You glanced upwards, then back toward the door.

Thunk, thunk, thunk—then, “Ln? Yn, you in here?”

Brows crossing, you straightened. “Seonghwa?”

Sure enough, Seonghwa's head of damp hair appeared through the opening. His gaze flickered from the chair between the door and the wall, then back up at you. “Seulgi said you might need help.”

“Oh.” So she didn't want Soyeon helping, but now Seonghwa was down here? There was something fishy going on… You turned back to the rack. “I mean, it's just towels.”

“Is there not a lot of them? She said there was a lot.” There was a soft shuffling sound, followed by a hollow clank as the chair was moved.

Shit. You whirled around, eyes widened as you watched him slip inside and set the chair aside. “Waitwait—don’t let it” —SLAM— “close!” A screech loosened from your throat as the wood vibrated from impact behind Seonghwa.

Your counterpart, to his credit, stood stock-still with his eyes blown wide. If he were a bunny rabbit, his ears would have been pressed flat against his head. “There… was a reason that chair was there, huh,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yes,” you sighed deeply. You dragged a hand down your face as you racked your brain for a solution. “It's fine. You didn't know about the door.”

“I'm sorry, I—that’s so stupid. Why haven't they called their landlord about this?” He rattled the doorknob to no avail, pink dusting his cheekbones as he tried to find some imaginary way out of the laundry room.

“Do you have your phone on you?”

Seonghwa patted his pockets, then groaned. “Fuck,” he swore, raking a hand through his damp hair, “I took it out of my pockets earlier because I didn't want it to get wet.”

Dread curdled in your stomach and you leaned your hip against the drying machine. “Same here.”

The two of you averted gazes as the reality of your situation sank in. Your only hope was the fact that both Seulgi and Soyeon knew of your whereabouts and were bound to come looking for you should you not turn up in a reasonable amount of time. For a moment, you tilted your head back and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. Out of all the people you could have gotten stuck with, of course, it would be Park Seonghwa.

Your conversation over the phone last night sparked in your head, along with the stares you had been exchanging all day. You glanced over at him, his bare back now pressed against the door as he stared at the floor in thought; but he raised his head to meet your eyes. “What?”

“Can you—can I ask you a question and will you answer honestly?”

He stared at you for a moment, then ducked his head. “Yeah, sure. Shoot.”

“Have you been… flirting with me?” As soon as the question left your mouth, you wished so badly to reel it back in. Oh, the utterly horrified tightening in your chest—was this a physical symptom of embarrassment?

The room was quiet enough to hear the muffled sound of the outdoor speakers driving their sound waves through the ground. You really hoped he didn't laugh. You wouldn't laugh if he confirmed it, but if he laughed, you would probably just about die of embarrassment. (But maybe you were willing to risk that. If what Soyeon talked to you about last night had any grounds, maybe there was a small part of both of you that was misinterpreting everything.)

Seonghwa's posture tautened and he pulled his shoulders back as if bracing himself. “Maybe I have been.”

“Oh.” You had not been expecting such a straightforward answer.

He seemed to register your daze in a certain way, and he began moving toward you. “Is that an issue for you?” he asked lowly, his head tilting to the side while he eyed you.

You cleared your throat, shook your head. “No,” you whispered.

“It's not?” he murmured. He was closer now, close enough that if you extended your arm, your fingers would press up against the broad expanse of his chest. “So you're not uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable? I wouldn't say uncomfortable,” you babbled as he took another step closer. “It's just that I'm not used to hearing something like that from you, addressing me—”

“So you're saying I should do it more often?” Seonghwa's lip twitched with the ghost of a smile. “To get you more used to it, I mean.”

When did this become an interrogation of you? Didn't you ask the first question? (Had he always been so close? You'd never seen abs this close before.) “Okay, stop!” You pressed your hands to his clavicle bones, and despite realizing you were touching the firm and bare flesh of his chest, you did not remove your hands. “What are we doing?”

He cocked his head to the side, eyeing you. The smile stopped ghosting you and curled up into his cheek. “We're having a conversation about flirting, Ln. Do keep up.”

You couldn't help yourself from rolling your eyes. It was like holding a lighter under a fuse, and you yanked your hands away from him as if you’d just been burned by a hot stove. “I'm flustered, not stupid!” you sputtered, fumbling desperately for an ounce of dignity because it had never been this easy for Seonghwa to get you like this, right?

“I never said otherwise,” he said, chuckling. His chin inclined at you, hands bracketing on either side of your body upon the washing machine your back dug into. “You’re a smart girl. What do the combined symptoms of dilated pupils” —his finger tapped the bridge of your nose— “rapid pulse” —another tap by your carotid artery on the underside of your jaw— “and shallow breathing” —a graze over your sternum— “suggest in this specific context?”

The answer materialized in your throat as a lump and you forced it down. Your eyes strayed to his mouth, unable to help yourself, but this action was swiftly mirrored by the man in front of you. In all the years you knew him, you had never seen him from this proximity before—you never let yourself. (Had his lips always been so pink?) Any attempt at closeness was always replaced by an exchange of barbed wits.

Your brain did the only thing it knew how to when it came to him. “God, you're such a fucking nerd,” you spat, then grabbed his face and kissed him.

He made a sound against your mouth—surprise, by the way his feet stumbled, knees knocking against yours and the washing machine—then recovered, leaning into you with purpose, hands finding purchase on the bare skin of your waist to yank you closer.

You decided he made the faint remnants of Coors Light on his tongue taste sublime. You suddenly couldn't get enough of it. Your arms hooked around his neck, fingers burying themselves in the hairs at his nape. Every cell in your body was geared toward this man, and this man only—your air exchanging with his, pulses pounding near in sync.

For once, your brain wasn't thinking. It wasn't thinking about what was happening outside that door, it wasn't thinking about how long you might be stuck in here, it wasn't thinking about ways to get out of here. Why would you want to get out of here? The heat conducted between your bodies could power the goddamn street for all you cared; the sensation of firm muscle against your stomach was enough to send you spiralling.

Seonghwa cupped the side of your jaw and coaxed your head back, your mouth further open. “Holy shit,” he rasped, voice worlds past Gone, then devoured you whole.

Holy shit, indeed. A whimper tumbled out from the back of your throat as you were pressed harder against the metal of the washing machine. Your mouths seared against one another like a brand, soft and breathy sounds seeping out from between you two, indistinguishable. Out of all the people in the world, how did kissing this man feel this right? Were some people just meant to ruin your life—ruin you—in more ways than one?

When you broke for air, his lips chased yours briefly, the string of saliva a physical attachment between you. For a moment, it was only heavy panting, eyes shut, noses bumping one another.

Reality did not settle like the hot humidity of summer on skin; it rolled in with the impending doom of thunder clouds. Literally.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM—a herd of stomps shook the walls around you, then were quickly followed by knocks so horrendously violent, one might believe that there was a murderer on the other side. “Yn, Hwa? Are you guys alive in there?”

Why would they have the decency to knock? Hands went to Seonghwa's chest and you forced some space between you two. You avoided his stare as you furiously fixed your hair and willed your mouth to look anything but kissed. “Yeah, will you open the damn door, Yunho?”

The laundry room door was hauled open, and on the other side was a handful of familiar faces, all quirked into curious expressions as they peered into the small space. They took in both of your appearances—no one needed to say anything.

“Towels,” you said aloud, your brain finally toggling on. You whirled back toward the back shelf and began loading your arms with the small towels Seulgi had asked for. (There was a sense prodding at the back of your mind that she never really needed them, but you would choose to do anything rather than confront the decision you just made.)

Seonghwa called your name as you passed by. Your lips burned as you continued walking.

Seonghwa's head no longer housed a brain, but a film projector constantly rewinding and playing a specific, 15-minute cut.

The fundraiser had long since concluded with Seulgi and Taeyong comparing values to determine that the girls had indeed raised more money. Everyone was free to return home, or loiter around Seulgi's house like a bunch of freeloaders. Some, like himself and Hongjoong, decided to dip back home for a quick shower and a nap, then return in time to meet everyone back here for a movie.

You were not one of the people who returned.

He sat in the driver's seat of his car, a beaded bracelet warming in his palm. Every time he rewound the past, he came to similar conclusions: he egged you on, but you kissed him first. He reciprocated the kiss and he was sure you seemed into it. Maybe he had been wrong.

No matter what Hongjoong said to soothe his ego, Seonghwa was still left with this pit in his stomach. Should he not have touched your relationship? Since that night at the library, there had been less distance between you; he had been making progress. He needed to talk to you about it, perhaps apologize. You initiated the kiss, but you were allowed to change your mind. You were allowed to be swept up by the heat of the moment.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When he opened them, he loosened his jaw with a sigh, tossed the bracelet into the cupholder, and replaced it with his keys. Go home, sleep on it, call her tomor—

The passenger side door opened and shut. The car filled with light notes of jasmine and bergamot and pear—the smell of summer and you.

He couldn't comprehend what was happening before you clunked something onto the dashboard next to his C-3PO. He blinked; it was a Lego figurine of R2-D2. (There went his steady heartbeat.)

You stared at the figurine you had placed, your hands settling into your lap. Your hair was still slightly damp, and the amber streetlight right outside your window casted a diabolically divine glow across your profile. “I thought it was time the spot was filled,” you said.

Seonghwa glanced between R2 and you. “Ah,” he replied, swallowing, “thanks.”

“I've always liked Star Wars better than Star Trek,” you blurted. “I just kind of… said all of that that one time because you seemed so on-edge about me being in your space.” You shook your head and picked at the skin on your fingers. “I don't know why I'm saying this.”

His brows furrowed slightly at your confession. This whole time… Why were you saying this now? The epiphany hit him in the chest, a blunt force that might have sent him stumbling if he were standing. There were so many layers to this confession. He looked at the R2 and C-3 figurines again; the pair was finally complete.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he inquired with a voice barely audible. It was one thing that you never outwardly judged him for his love of Star Wars or Legos, but it was another thing entirely that you claimed to be a Star Trek fan and allowed him to tease you.

“I convinced myself it was right for the time,” you said. A beat passed. “I'm sorry for basically running away earlier,” you continued on quietly. “I know I'm the one who kissed you first.”

“You don't need to apologize for that,” he murmured. “It all kind of happened really fast, and you know, it's okay if you didn't really mean it.”

Your head turned to look at him now—really look at him. He couldn't help but meet your gaze as opposite poles of a magnet did without fail. “I meant it. I don't know what it means, but I meant it. And I—liked it. A lot.” The latter was uttered with such fragility, such vulnerability; it was cupping a snowflake in your palms and hoping the natural heat of your body did not melt it.

(You had gone home earlier this evening to wash up and laid in bed with the taste of him taking up residence on your tongue. Staring at the ceiling had lost its appeal after the first hour, and it took the efforts of both Soyeon and Ronnie to drag you out of your mental prison.

“Did you like it?” they'd asked. “And don't say no just because it's Seonghwa and you have an ego; be honest with yourself.”

You sat there before them—scared, nervous, and embarrassed—but without a doubt in your mind as to the answer.)

Seonghwa wondered if you could hear the thrashing of blood in his ears like he could. He wondered if your heart pounded as vigorously as his did, if your mouth burned with the phantom of his, if you were confused by how you had gone on so long not seeing who was in front of you this whole time. (Because if he was being honest, you were the measure no one has been able to compare to in his head, in any capacity.)

“I liked it a lot, too,” he said. He would not let that snowflake melt, at least not by your hands alone.

Your eyes glimmered with silvery as they widened. “Oh.”

Seonghwa offered you a small smile, then cleared his throat as he remembered something. His eyes went to the discarded bracelet in the cupholder, and he fished it out with a sheepish wince. “I, uh, made you this awhile back” —he deposited it into your waiting palms— “'cause you weren't able to finish your own bracelet at the event.” Seonghwa had been fidgeting with that thing in his pocket that entire evening.

“So that's what you had in your pocket during the walk.”

He startled. “You noticed?”

The corner of your lip tilted upward into a semblance of a smirk. You scoffed. “I notice everything about you,” the words slipped out of your mouth before you could catch them.

The weight of them rested heavy upon both of you, but not uncomfortably. Seonghwa relished in the sudden way you avoided his eye contact, and he decided that one embarrassing line could be traded for another. He let out a small laugh. “I just chickened out because it sounded stupid to give it to you and say I wished we could start over.”

God, why did that still sound stupid? Everything coming out of his mouth was stupid. It was impossible to have a do-over with so much history between you two, but… wasn't it worth a shot?

You absentmindedly rubbed at the arrangement of beads and artful knots along the thread, your mind seemingly far away. He had made you a friendship bracelet, or was it a do-over bracelet, or was it far more complicated than either or those? “I don't think we could ever start over.”

His heart plummeted into his stomach. Right. Rightrightright.

“But I wanna try whatever this is.” You wrapped the bracelet cord around your wrist, looping it and tightening it to the perfect circumference. “I think we owe ourselves that much.”

A smile, so gentle and tender like the spring breeze, blossomed on his face. It was gladness in physical form. You couldn't help but break into a similar expression, and the thought occurred to him that you must have always had that smile. How could you know so much about each other and yet, nothing at all? What were you supposed to do with so much history?

It was a lot like layers of skin peeling away from a healing sunburn. All that damage caused over the years might take just as long to turnover, but who were either of you if not up for a challenge?

Not bad for a couple of nerds.

a/n: they tied for first place in the "who will get married first" debate by the way. pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed !!

“Hi,” you mumble, shy. Your shoulders are set, your back straight, your eyes pointed but your glossy, bottom lip is tucked between your teeth. Yeosang’s brows furrow, the pulse point in his neck throbbing, he hopes you can’t hear it like he can, a steady rhythm of bass pounding in his eardrums.

“Hi,” he mutters, confused, starstruck, and relieved all at once. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, eyes sliding behind him, peering into his apartment. Baby pink sweatpants sit low on your hips, your white, strappy tank barely meeting the waistband, showing a sliver of your skin that makes Yeosang’s short nails curl into his front door. 

He steps to the side, allowing you entrance as he mumbles, “Sure.” 

There’s flip-flops on your feet, showing off your toes always lined with white, thin, silver rings clamped on the middles. A miniature pink purse sits on your shoulder, you let it fall down to hold it loosely between your fingers as you glance around, taking in the sight of his apartment that hasn’t changed. 

“I thought you would’ve gotten rid of the football posters,” you say absentmindedly, as if it’s normal for you to be here, as if you didn’t shatter his heart to shrapnel six weeks ago. 

“I still like football,” Yeosang closes the door behind him, but he lingers, fingertips still touching the oak. “My priorities are the only thing that changed.” 

“Changed,” you repeat, turning to face him, blowing annoyed amusement through your nose. “You ruined your future, that’s what you did.” 

Yeosang sighs. “If that’s what you believe.” 

“It’s what I know.” You throw a hand on your hip. “Why haven’t you texted me? You haven’t reached out once.” 

Yeosang lets his bare shoulderblades touch the door, letting the cool wood seep into his skin as he counters, “You broke up with me. What did you want me to say?”

You shrug, hands waving in the air on either side of you, purse swinging as you all but whisper, “Something.” There’s an edge to your voice, one that makes his gut rumble, something deep and low. “You could have said anything, Yeosang.” 

“You made a choice,” Yeosang keeps his tone calm, soft. “I respected it.” 

Your top lifts in distaste, taking a step towards him. “God forbid you actually disagree with me on something.”

“Isn’t acceptance better?” Yeosang’s voice goes shallow, airy. He can smell you and it’s making his head fuzzy, his knees weak. He wonders how long it’ll take to get the smell out this time. 

“Define better,” you take another step towards him, eyes flickering over his build. The shorts on his legs, hanging too low for company, the lack of a shirt on his upper half. You drink him in like you missed him. 

“Why are you here?”

“I need,” you start, full of confidence, but you cut yourself off. Standing just a foot away from him, Yeosang’s head is angled downward to see you, the first thing he notices is the shift in your breathing. Quicker, shallow breaths, you conjure as much certainty as you can to say, “I want you.” 

Yeosang’s brows raise, length opening an eye in his basketball shorts. You don’t give him a chance to respond, running your fingers through your styled hair, voice pitched with impatience. 

“No one else gets it,” you mutter, stress bleeding through your words. “You’re different. You get it, you get me.” 

“What do I get?” Yeosang’s whispering, he needs to know, even if he’s scared you might change your mind and push past him if he asks. He’s terrified that giving in will alter his brain chemistry. “Why me?”

“Yeosang,” you say his name like it relays everything. He keeps your stare even if he wants to look away, like he was facing a bull, dressed in crimson and there was no way in hell he’d win, but something forces him to stand his ground. Maybe it’s because he knows you just as well as you know him.

“I know your priorities have changed,” your voice lowers, but you keep your eyes on him like you know his defense is already stripped. Like all you had to do was say the magic word and he’d be putty in your palms once more. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants me at all, I need a favor. I need… I need to… I want to fuck you.”

Yeosang can hear his own heartbeat. He can feel the sweat prickling his skin at the back of his neck, on his pecs, at the base of his spine. His eyes blow wide, swallowing down his shock, hesitance making him blink at you, lips parting. 

You groan, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, covering your eyes. “Please say something,” you mutter, “it’s humiliating enough that I’m even here right now.”

“I,” Yeosang starts, but his voice cracks on the singular word. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head a little, “I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?” Your arms stretch out on either side of you, bewildered that Yeosang didn’t immediately respond yes, that he wasn’t on his hands and knees begging for it. “We had one good thing, Yeosang.” 

It hurts his chest, like your manicured hand pierced his skin, reached right for his heart and squeezed. You had plenty of good things, several good things, your relationship was damn near perfect before he quit football. Before he joined Jay’s band. 

You take a step towards him and he can see the last six months flash before his eyes.

“You don’t miss me?” Your voice is softer now, dripping in a fake sweetness that makes his breathing manual, he can feel the heat of your body. 

Low, almost a whisper, Yeosang says, “I do.”

Your lips curve at the corner, glossy, sparkling and edible. Like he’d given you the green light, your voice coated in candy, you ask, “Can I take care of you?”

Yeosang’s brows knit together ever so slightly, a sign of want, of need. All he can muster is a tiny, whimpered, “Please.”

You don’t kiss him.

You drop to your knees, eyes on his, staring up over your forehead. Slowly, your purse falls to the floor beside you, your fingers reach up to the waistband of his shorts. Yeosang’s brows are already tied together, back arched, hips bent toward you while his shoulders stay flush to the door.

“Do you want to cum in my mouth, or inside me?”

Yeosang sucks in a sharp breath, hollowing out his stomach, abdomen flexing. “Wherever you want me to.”

Your smile is wide and true as you tug his shorts down to his thighs, his cock springing out, slapping against the skin between his veiny hipbones. Pupils dilating like you were starved, like Yeosang was your last meal, you licked your lips, muttering a curse under your breath. 

Yeosang’s hips twitch toward you, “Please.”

“Don’t beg,” your eyes flicker upward again. “The fact that you’re this hard when I haven’t even touched you is pathetic.”

A small, tight moan slips from between his lips, cock jumping, face scrunched up in pleasure. Your soft, dainty hand finds the base of his length, sliding up over his tip, your palm rolling against his slit, spreading the slick that’d already begun dribbling down the side. The sound he makes should be embarrassing, it’s deafening, laying over the silence of the room, loud and sharp and needy. 

“Quiet.” The order isn’t harsh, but it’s not fully confident, either. Your eyes flicker upward again like you needed to see if he’d listen, like it’d give you confirmation to continue. His lips fold between his teeth and your knees part further on the floor, other hand wrapping around his cock, the two holding him in full. 

He fights his own instinct to rock his hips into your hands. His breathing is verbal, heavy, chest rising and lowering, muscles contracting as you squeeze, but don’t move. You stay there for a second, testing him, his restraint, his control– he assumes he passes when you guide his tip toward your glossy lips, tongue poking out to lick over his slit, soft and flat and wet. 

Your lips wrap around him and the dull thud of the back of his head hitting the door sounds through the room. Taking him into your mouth, hands falling to his hips, he groans as your tongue massages the underside of his length, sliding down until your nose meets the tuft of hair at his base. 

“S-shit,” he grinds out, “s’good.”

You hum around him, vibrating his cock, his hips twitch into your mouth. He glances downward, but you don’t react, you start bobbing your head, working up a rhythm. His hands dig into the wood behind him, whines escaping from his lips one after another, pitched and loud and embarrassing, but he doesn’t care. 

It’s been six weeks. 

Gagging yourself on him, he whimpers, thighs shaking from how hard he’s trying to keep himself composed. You can feel the way he’s climbing, reaching out for euphoria, silently begging you to let him paint your throat white, you bring him as close as you can to his peak before you’re pushing off him with a pop. 

His hips follow, a muddled curse rolling off his tongue, two fists banging against the door behind him. You huff a laugh, licking your lips that curve into a sly grin, “That quick?”

His chest is heaving, golden skin splotched with shapes of pink, his face angled and sharp with denial. “I–, I don’t–”

“Go. On the couch.” You don’t move from where you’re planted on the hardwood, ass on your calves, staring up at him. He listens, still trying to catch his breath, pulling his shorts down to his ankles before he sits back on the deep brown couch, waiting for you. 

Standing before him now, you don’t waste any time pulling your sweatpants down, leaving the pink, lacy panties with a bow at the center of the waistband on your hips. Yeosang’s eyes flock to it like a moth to a flame, his favorite. So cute, so dainty, so you, absentmindedly he almost reaches for his cock that leaks onto his abdomen. 

“Last longer,” your voice is firm, direct. “You don’t cum until I do. Okay?” 

His nod is eager, “Y-yes.”

You kick your sweats and your panties off before you swing a leg over his lap, a manicured hand finding the base of his length again. Yeosang hisses out a curse, you lick your lips, watching him react. Tummy flexing, muscles still just as defined as they were six weeks ago, you note that he’s still going to the gym. Nothing’s changed except his hair color, what was once a pretty blonde was now a neon green, ends tipped with black, a foul pair of hues. You look at his pretty face instead, his pecs that sit flexed, his cute, pink nipples that pebbled in the open air of his living room. 

You lift yourself to line him up with your core, bracing yourself for the stretch, it’s been over a month since you’ve sat on his length and fuck you weren’t prepped even a little. Sliding his tip through your folds, wetness coating him, dripping down the width of him, you take your time guiding him inside you, letting yourself feel every inch, every vein, each twitch of his cock that pulsed as you sank down. 

Yeosang’s head tips back, groaning, hands finding your hips. “Oh my god.”

You moan as your thighs meet his, fully seated, mounted onto him like he was your throne. Clenching around him, breath picking up, your heart pounds against your ribs at how good he feels inside you. You missed this, you missed him, the way he feels, the sounds he makes, how easy and compliant he is, always. 

His fingers squeeze, “T-tight, baby. So tight– shit.”

Yeosang feels like he could bust at any second. Six weeks without sex, without you, it was blowing his fucking mind and you haven’t even moved yet. It feels so good, it’s so wrong, you aren’t together, he doesn’t even know who else you’ve been with. He doesn’t care; he still loves you. The way you look at him, the way your skin feels on his, the way you can read every single one of his expressions, he doesn’t have to say a word. He loves how you take care of him. He loves how easy it is for you to make him cum. 

He missed your smell. He missed your smile. He missed the way you order him around and the way his body responds without his brain. 

“Gonna move,” you whisper. “Take it.”

You start rocking your hips and Yeosang’s head snaps forward again, eyes wide, jaw slack. It’s so good, you feel so fucking good, clenching around him like he was nothing but a toy. He watches your chest bounce beneath your tank, no bra, your nipples poking through the thin, useless fabric. 

His hands follow his thoughts, pushing the hem over the peak of your breasts, cupping them in his palms, thumbs running over your peaked nipples. So fucking pretty, his mouth waters, he needs–

“Go ahead,” you sigh, moving your hair away from your face, over your shoulders. 

He leans forward, lips wrapping around your nipple, his hand massaging the other, brows knitted together like he’d died and gone to heaven. Satisfied wasn’t the word, pure bliss, his mouth occupied, your hips moving in a dirty grind against his cock, beautiful, pitched noises leaving your lips, music to his ears. 

He feels alive again, it’s so easy to ignore that this is wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this. The ramifications of his actions will be too heavy to bear, a weight on his shoulders for the weeks to come, he doesn’t care, not when your moans grow louder, head tipping back, core clenching around him with every other drag of your hips, chasing an orgasm he’d never deny you. 

He’d never deny you anything. 

Your hands find his hair, pulling his head backward, you stare into him, his eyes glossed over, his swollen, pink lips parted, so beautiful you want to lean down and kiss him. You don’t, though, it feels too intimate, like it’d send the wrong message, like you wanted him for something more than his cock poking at your cervix. 

“Please,” he mumbles, voice lagged and heavy with arousal, “need to feel you cum around me, want– need to fill you up.”

You moan a curse, lifting your hips, dropping them down against his cock harshly, picking up your pace to chase the pressure that’s steadily building in your gut. So pretty, so beautiful, so yours, you mumble a question you don’t register asking, “Have you fucked anyone else?”

He’s quick to answer, “No.”

You’re glad you asked. You laugh a little, a small, tiny breath of amusement, “Of course not.”

He grunts when you clench around him, like it gets you off knowing that in the six weeks you’ve been apart he hasn’t even looked at anyone else. He’s spent the last six weeks in class, in Jay’s garage, or here, on his couch with his bass on his lap, playing the same song over and over. Practicing, thinking, debating on whether or not he made a mistake– he never thought quitting football would make him lose you, too. 

But here you were, back in his apartment, wrapped around him like no time had passed, as if you never ended things with him in the first place, like you didn’t ghost him for six weeks. It’s not like he reached out, either, you made it clear that if he wasn’t on the team, you had no business being together. Who was Yeosang to argue with you about what you wanted?

The captain of the cheerleading team and a running back, you liked him in uniform, with shoulder pads and cleats and his fingers wrapped around brown leather. You liked it when he was practicing on the field and the cheerleading team was in the corner, rehearsing, doing stunts on the turf. You liked it when you were both sweaty and high off adrenaline and you’d meet eyes across the green, thinking about what came later. You liked it when he won games, when you could run over and jump in his arms and kiss him stupid, then fuck him in congratulation afterward.

You built a routine together, one that wasn’t official–because that seemed to be the norm on this campus, at this age–and a routine built off instability rarely had a happy ending. Part of Yeosang saw it as a ticking time-bomb, one that met its inevitable end. 

Skin wet like you were dripping in condensation, your body moved against Yeosang’s like you were built for him. Like no one else in the world could make you feel this good, he could hear it in how you sang for him, how reactive you were to his touch, to him. You were the one that missed him, that’s the only explanation for you showing up unannounced, mere days after he heard the rumours about you and Jaemin. 

Now you’re here. And he let you in so easily.

“Y’feel so good,” you moan, fingers curling into his shoulders. His hands find your hips again, guiding you on his length at the pace that always made you cum quick, his hips angled to curve into the spot at the front of your walls. “Yeosang!” You clench around him again and he bites down a curse. “I’m close.”

His brows knitted together, jaw slack, middle flexing over and over, he focuses on angling himself at that same spot, moving you at the same pace, a fixed rhythm, using your sounds as motivation to keep himself anchored. 

You reach down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit and he’s thinking of anything he can to stop himself from coming. A whimper escapes him, pitched and needy and pathetic, he knows it is. You gasp before clenching around him, hard, your body trembling, legs shaking on either side of his body, Yeosang smiles. 

“Yes, cumming f’me,” he sounds ragged, rambling out of arousal. “So pretty, so sexy, missed you s’much. Let me fill you up, please? Please let me.”

Your hips pick up in pace on their own, it drives him crazy. He’s moaning, fingertips pressing into your hips, his mouth unmoving because his orgasm is so close he can taste it. 

“Cum for me,” you soothe, voice encouraging and full of praise. “Made me feel so good, you deserve it. Wanna feel you, Yeo.”

It’s enough to push him over, stuttering a groan as he empties himself inside you, hips bucking up into yours as he feels every second of release. Six weeks without sex is a long time. 

You stay there for a moment, hands warm on his skin, controlling your breathing until your heart rate slows into something regulated. Yeosang keeps his eyes on you, watching, feeling, etching the memory into his mind because he doesn’t know if it’ll happen again. He doesn’t know how long he’ll go without you this time. Maybe forever. 

Then you’re lifting yourself off him, standing on his rug before the couch, fixing your white tank, reaching for your panties and your sweatpants. He waits for you to speak. 

Your lips flatten as you tug your clothes up to your hips, “Can I use your bathroom before I go?”

A slow nod from Yeosang, a small mumble of of course. 

He fixes his clothes, pulls his briefs and his shorts back over his hips, then leans back into the couch, letting himself relax into the plush. Letting himself feel. It feels like his birthday to have you in his apartment – but to sleep with him? Because you missed him? There’s a rush of giddiness inside him, one blooming from his chest to the tips of his fingers, you missed him as much as he missed you. 

His heart beats to the sound of your flip flops smacking through his apartment, he opens his eyes to you grabbing your tiny little pink purse from the floor, reaching inside for your lip gloss. 

He feels like he should say something. Ask something. He’s scared you’ll leave without a word if he doesn’t. 

“Hey–”

“Look,” you cut him off, screwing the cap back onto your gloss, shoving it in your miniature purse. “I’m sorry I came over unannounced, it won’t happen again. I just… I needed that.”

“It can happen again.” He doesn’t want it to be over. “I get it.”

You sigh, a hand on your hip, “It shouldn’t happen again. We aren’t ever going to be anything, Yeosang.”

“Then why come back?” He sits forward a little. “Why fuck me? And not Jaemin?”

Your eyes widen like he caught you red-handed. You stand a little straighter as you swing your purse over your shoulder, “Leave Jaem out of this.”

“Okay,” Yeosang nods, shrugging, internally despising that you just called him Jaem. “I will. Whatever makes you happy.”

Your eyes find the floor, shoulders slouching ever so slightly. “I have to go,” you mumble, not meeting his eye. “I have practice early tomorrow.”

He watches, he hears you as you leave, as your flip flops smack down the hallway outside of his apartment. He wishes he had the balls to ask you to stay. He looses a breath he didn’t know he was holding, running a hand through his sweaty hair, cursing under his breath when he looks at his fingers and sees green. 

He smacks his teeth together, the box the neon-green dye came in said it wouldn’t bleed. Disappointed in the hair dye, disappointed in you, disappointed in himself, he knows in his soul he shouldn’t have fucked you. It restarted all the progress he’s made the past six weeks, coming to terms with the fact that you and him were over, that he had a new life now. He’s different now. 

He terminated his contract and bleached his head. He dyed it green, texted Jay, asked if he still had the spot open in his band, to which Jay responded hell yeah and Yeosang hauled his ass to his garage with his bass strapped over his back. 

In six weeks, he’s played two shows. Everything was just starting to feel right.

There’s fear stemming at the base of his spine, that thirty minutes of his life, thirty minutes of sharing saliva and being inside of you would destroy all the work he’s put in. Everything he’s already changed. Everything he already loves. 

Because in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his heart, he knows he loves you more than all of it. 

He doesn’t see you again for another three weeks. 

You made good on your promise, not swinging by his apartment again. It took days to get the smell of you out of his living room, again. He still smells the couch cushions daily just in case. Maybe a part of him wishes it lingered. 

He doesn’t reach out, though. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t DM. He doesn’t go anywhere near the places you frequent on campus. If you miss him, you’d let him know. You’d show him. Somehow.

Yeosang thinks maybe this is your way of saying it, in the Arts Building, nowhere near the lecture hall majority of your classes are in. Did you change your schedule? Forced into taking another elective for the sake of credits? There’s no reason for you to be walking towards him in a denim skirt so small he can almost see the lacy pair of panties beneath it. 

Your face is pointed like you had an agenda. All Yeosang can do is sit there, in the common space, on the same cushioned chair he always sat in, sketch pad on his lap, waiting for you to approach him, to speak. 

But you don’t. 

You walk past him, heeled feet somehow clinking against the carpet-covered floor. Your head doesn’t move but your eyes stay on him until he’s in your peripherals, your chin up, shoulders squared, back straight, Yeosang can’t take his eyes off you. Denim kissing the crease where your ass meets your thighs, the shadow above your waistband showing the indent of your spine, the muscles in your calves flexing with each step, he swings his legs around to the front of the chair just so he can watch you leave.

Moth to a flame. 

He curses himself for how easily he gives in to you. You let him see you because you wanted him to see you, you wanted yourself on his mind, you wanted him to go home and sit on his bed with a fist wrapped around his length, recalling the last memory of it being your mouth, instead. 

He shoves his sketchbook into his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and hauls himself outside. Screw his last class, he’d look at the notes online, maybe. He doesn’t really care what he’s about to miss. He needs to grow a backbone, needs to strengthen his mind so you can’t penetrate his mental walls so effortlessly. Already he’s stirring beneath his cargos, he needs to go somewhere, he needs to do something, he refuses to go back to his apartment and lose time thinking about you. 

Impulse brings him outside of campus. Hours walking through busy streets of the city, listening to music and chatter from restaurants, the traffic rushing between them, he finds comfort in the sunshine on his skin, making his head feel hot, his cheeks feel pink. 

Impulse brings him to a piercing shop. Brow quirked, lips pursed, there isn’t much thought in his head as impulse pushes his legs inside. 

By ten he’s at home again, throwing his bag on the couch, turning on the speaker in the corner of the room just to fill the silence while he lights a joint. In the kitchen, he makes himself dinner, the thought occurs that he was out for so long and didn’t eat– routine and discipline embedded in his veins makes him pull out meal-prepped food from his fridge.

Half a joint burned to ash and a meal digested, he’s only half-satisfied, he wonders when the practices that years of playing football have embedded in him will fade. If he’ll ever just be Yeosang again, instead of an ex-running-back, or the guy who dropped football for a bass guitar. 

He debates checking his phone, calling Jongho, calling Aven, someone to occupy his fucking time, to ease his thoughts, so his fuzzy mind doesn’t hyperfixate on everything being different. So he can forget that he saw you today. 

Three knocks sound at his door, loud, angry noises that make him jump where he stood beside the counter. He runs to the front door, swinging it open, about to open his mouth when you barrel past him into his living room like a fucking fly buzzing past his ear. 

“You looked at me today.”

You’re angry. Eyes pointed, chest puffed out, brows chiseled and furrowed, Yeosang looks behind him like maybe he isn’t on the receiving end of this. Seeing nothing but an empty hallway, he closes the door behind him, and turns to you again. 

“Okay?” He asks, says, it’s genuine. What answer is he supposed to have?

You’re in a sports bra and shorts that cling to your body. They reach high, over your belly button, but the hem squeezes right at the tips of your thighs, painted onto your skin. Yeosang’s breath turns manual as he takes in every detail, how your outfit doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, not that it’s anything he hasn’t seen before.

“Don’t do that,” you huff, hands on your hips, a wristlet hanging from your silver-covered forearm. Three bracelets, bangles, sparkly, they hang off your wrist, still dancing together, sounding like wind chimes on a summer day. 

“Okay,” Yeosang’s brows furrow ever so slightly. “I won’t.”

“God, you piss me off,” you start pacing, hands on your forehead, walking back and forth in his entryway, if he could even call it that. If you open his front door, you’re already inside of his living room. “You do understand that I want nothing to do with you, right? That we’re not together?”

Yeosang nods, slowly, brows still furrowed like there are a million points he’s missing. “I’m very aware.”

“Then don’t look at me like that!” You finally stop in the middle of the room, voice loud, accompanied by the wind chimes on your wrist and the music coming from Yeosang’s speaker. “Don’t look at me like you still have some sort of feelings for me. Especially in public, Yeosang, I don’t need anyone asking me questions about you.”

His arms cross over his chest, once again dumbfounded, unsure of how to reply. 

Your arms fall to your sides, eyes slimming. “What’s in your ears?”

His head cocks to the side, fingers coming up to touch his ears, suddenly reminded when it stings that he filled them with metal today. Simply, he responds, “Earrings.”

Then you’re marching up to him, manicured hands in his hair, pushing it off his face. You’re so pretty, skin soft, eyelashes long, coated in black. Sunkissed, like you’d just come from an outdoor practice, a little flushed with exertion, as if it wasn’t just after eleven. You’re talking, he can’t hear you, lost in your features, wondering how it’s possible for someone to exist this beautifully.

“Yeosang,” you urge, it’s a warning, stealing his attention. His brows raise in question. “The green hair was enough. What else are you gonna do to ruin yourself?”

“Are you my mother or something?” It slips out of his mouth, instinctive, he smacks his lips together. He blames the weed, the lingering smell of sweat on your skin, your face so close to his, his head is fuzzy. He short-circuited.

Your eyes darken, thinning, your hands fall to your sides. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I wanted earrings, so I got them.”

“Don’t change the subject,” you bite. “What did you just say to me? Say it again.”

He swallows, eyes meeting the floor. Voice quiet, under his breath, he answers, “I asked if you’re my mother.”

You laugh, a short, chopped sound of feigned amusement, it makes goosebumps rise on his arms.

“Did you finally learn how to fight back?” Your arms cross, pushing up your chest in your sports bra, Yeosang averts his eyes elsewhere. “To me, of all people. The one person you shouldn’t argue with.”

His eyes flicker upward, meeting your irritated stare. “Why not? We aren’t together, are we?”

From annoyed to impressed to angry, Yeosang watches your face morph into each emotion, a dance of your eyebrows and a scrunch of your lips. He can’t believe he said it, and neither can you. 

“No,” your voice lowers, quieter now. “But if there was any chance of us fucking again, it’s gone.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicker down to your chest then, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty for it. If he doesn’t know when he’s going to see it again, then he might as well etch it to memory now.

“You know,” you start, eyes twinkling with mischief, a snag in your smile. “It’s funny you used that as an insult, of all things. Am I your mother.” 

Yeosang doesn’t respond, but his chest feels heavy. Like he already knows where this is headed.

You take a step forward, close enough that Yeosang can smell the lingering sweat on your skin. He can see the remnants, too, a gloss on the highest point of your cheekbones, over your brows. It melts into your perfect skin, skin you care for daily, every morning, every night. He’s watched you complete your routine enough times to know it was time-consuming and expensive; he knows each and every step, the ingredients in each product, how much they cost. 

“There was a time you used to call me something… similar,” you pop a brow, the snag in your grin widening to a smirk. “Remember?” Yeosang gives you a ghost of a nod, barely a twitch of his head. You cock your head, “Remind me, it seems to have slipped my mind. Weird.” 

Yeosang’s jaw clenches, embarrassment flaming in his cheeks. He can feel his Adam’s apple move as his throat bobs, like a lump of shame he can’t pass. Quietly, almost under his breath, he mumbles the word. The reminder.

“What was that?” your voice is playful, a sing-song tone. Like you’re eating up every fucking second of this. “Say it louder. With your chest, Yeosang.”

His eyes find the floor, his pale, bare feet a contrast to the hardwood. He says it quicker, louder, a one-syllable confession like he despised the curve of his lips as he said it, “Mommy.”

You smack your teeth, and your grin spreads from ear to ear. “Right, that’s it, can’t believe I forgot!”

Yeosang glares from under his brows, despising the rush of adrenaline he knows is coursing through you at the title on his tongue. A word he used to say proudly, more often than he should’ve, a word that used to push you past the finish line if he said it coated in a desperate whine. Right now, all it’s doing is feeding your already-huge ego.

“Are you finished?” Yeosang asks, and the question is honest. Without remnants of a snide tone, no snarky attitude, he’s over the humiliation ritual. If you were just going to stand here and tease him, you could leave. Even if every fiber of his being wants you to stay.

You shake your head before answering a smooth, “No.” Shifting your weight onto one leg, you ask again, “Do you remember when you used to call me that?”

Yeosang pops a brow, unsure of the correct answer. “When I was fucking you?”

You blow amusement through your nose. “You never fucked me, I fucked you.”

And maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the half of him that’s still in love with you. Some part of him stands a little straighter and responds, “So do it again.”

Your face scrunches for half a millisecond. Taking a half-step back, you ask, “What?”

“Do it again,” he says with his chest this time, taking a half-step forward, closing the distance again. He searches for the reason inside himself and he comes up with nothing. You came here to tell him to stop looking at you, even if you put yourself in his line of sight. You insulted him, his hair, his earrings, his appearance. You made fun of him for what he used to call you at his most vulnerable moments with your chest puffed, chin jutted upward, making you seem six feet tall. 

Is wanting you some kind of incurable fucking disease? Should he go to the goddamn doctor?

“Remind me why I used to call you that,” he leans down, his voice low, smooth. “Give me a reason to do it again.”

Possibly for the first time ever, you seem speechless. Eyes wide like saucers, he can hear your breath catch, an accidental sound between a gasp or spit getting stuck in your throat. You stutter, “N-no, I told you last time was the last time.”

“Then why’d you come here?” he’s too quick to ask, it spills out of him. “Where were you? Working out? On a run, trying to get all this pent-up shit out, when you know the only thing that works is me?”

Your heels come together, back rigid. Your eyes dance around his face, even the shake of your head stutters, like you were desperately trying to control the instinct driving you. He feels like he’s vibrating, electricity threading from his thighs to his fingertips that linger millimeters beside them, body begging to touch you so he could share the lightning.

“Admit it,” he whispers.

Your jaw clenches. “You can’t fucking bait me.”

“I’m not baiting you,” he quips. “I just know you.”

“Fuck you,” you bite, baring your pearly, white teeth.

Yeosang grins. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

You lunge for him. Not that there’s much space to clear, you nearly jump onto him, into him, his arms catching you underneath your thighs swiftly, holding you tight as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips hit his and all he could taste was your anger, frustration, all pent up in your sickeningly perfect body, he can’t believe he’s tasting you again. He can’t believe he’s kissing you. 

He walks you to his bedroom himself. You don’t even process that you’re moving, he doesn’t break the kiss, he could walk around his apartment without a singular misstep in pitch black darkness. Smooth, effortless, he only breaks the kiss to lay you down gently on his bed.

Still perfectly made from this morning, thank god, you’d have a fit if it wasn’t. Another thing that's stuck. Meal-prep, hydration, shaving, his gym routine, making his bed… Yeosang is a man of practice.

“This is what you wanted,” you growl as soon as your back hits his comforter. “You wanted me here. On your bed.”

“You wanted me,” he pops a brow, words easy. “You came here for one reason, and one reason only.” 

Your jaw clenches, “Take my shorts off.” It sounds like your best attempt at coming off icy, but Yeosang hears the burnt edge of arousal, the impatience on your tongue. Your hips twitch against the bed, legs dangling in open air. 

Yeosang doesn’t listen. He watches you, taking his time with each sneaker, unlacing the bunny ears before throwing them to his floor. He barely waits to hear the sound of foam and rubber hitting the hardwood before his thumbs are tucking into your socks, sliding them down your smooth, strong ankles, taking his time rolling them off your feet. He doesn’t care where they land on his floor, he hopes it takes time to find them later. 

Your cheeks match your chest, both flushed and bleeding impatience, your upper half rising and lowering rapidly like you also couldn’t believe this was happening. Again. 

“Yeosang,” you say when he takes a moment to press a knee into the mattress. “My shorts. Now.” 

His palms find your knees for leverage as he leans down, eyes catching on the dampened spot on your shorts. A deepened, asymmetrical shape of teal, darker than your turquoise shorts, your matching sports bra. He swallows, mouth filling with saliva, he could feel his eyes fucking dilating and he knows you can see it, too. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, using might to pull them down your lower half. With the way they were painted onto your skin, the slight gleam of sweat still sparkling in his dim bedroom, the curves and muscle on your body…

And you have nothing on underneath. He nearly moans. 

“Fuck,” he utters under his breath. “So pretty.”

“Shut up, Yeosang,” you huff. “You’re taking too fucking long.”

He doesn’t know how you switched places. Swift movement had Yeosang on his back, your knees pinned to the mattress on either side of his head, and faced with the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, impulse has his forearms curling over your thighs, pulling you down onto his tongue.

Your pitched moan pierces his bedroom. You peel your sports bra over your chest once your hips start their rhythm on his tongue, fingers flying to your boobs, pinching your peaked nipples. He keeps his tongue poked out, eyelids fluttering, savoring the taste of your soaked folds that coat his tongue in candy.

He takes a moment to inhale, to bask in your scent; natural, mild, a little tang from sweat. Has he ever been this hungry in his life? Can he blame any of this on the weed anymore?

Your hips roll over his flexed tongue, head tipped backward, filling the air of his bedroom with a song of your pleasure, the bass-line the jingle of your bangles dancing down your wrist as your fingers grab for his hair. He can’t hear the music coming from his living room anymore, each one of his senses enveloped by you, and he’d gladly die right here, right now, his last meal being you.

“Yes,” you moan out, and the word is so full of sheer relief it makes Yeosang grip your thighs harder, makes him moan into your core. He focuses on licking over your clit, the rhythm only broken up by his lips swirling around the bundle of nerves, sucking without making it overwhelming, too much too quickly. A pace you love, the pressure he knows pushes you further down the line, Yeosang’s only goal is getting you over it. 

You tilt your hips up, clit grazing the tip of his nose, and the way your abdomen flexes has his own hips bucking upward. An abrupt jerk of movement you feel, you know is happening, even if it’s behind you.

Eyes low-lidded, glazed over, you take a peek over your shoulder before asking, “You’re getting off on this?” Yeosang can’t answer with a mouth full of you. You try to laugh, but you suck in a sharp intake of air as his teeth ghost your clit. “You want to be used. Does anyone know what a bitch you are? That you get off on just tasting me?”

Yeosang moans into your center, hips bucking again.

“I’m sure they don’t.” Your eyebrows are tied together as you reach one arm behind you, palm landing on Yeosang’s abdomen for leverage, using the strength of him to give free movement to your hips. You grind yourself onto his mouth harder, faster, a quicker rhythm as you say, “Do they know about me? Or did you get rid of our history when you got rid of your own?”

His fingers sear your thighs, knuckles bone-white. You croak out a whine, “You’d never be this pliant for anyone else. No one else can make you feel this way without even fucking touching you.”

Yeosang moans his agreement, tongue plunging into your entrance, he hopes it’s answer enough. Your head falls back, chest heaving, free hand squeezing your chest, “Shit, I’m close.”

He’s never felt so motivated before. Nodding his head in rhythm with your hips bucking over his mouth, he keeps himself focused, brows furrowed and brain clear. When your moans grow in pitch, when your hips stutter, he keeps your pace fixed by his grip on your thighs. He keeps his tongue flexed, focused on rolling over your clit, using the same pressure, the same speed, never once faltering.

Then you’re crying out, hips seizing, body rolling, the muscles in your stomach clenching and unclenching; but never once do you say his name. Never once do you praise him for being the one to push you over the finish line, to bring you to orgasm.

Sitting back, nearly putting all your weight on his chest, it’s a comfort to him, even if you already look disappointed in the fact that you let this happen again. He can see your heavy breath, upper body expanding, caving in, lips parted and brows upturned ever so slightly. You take a moment to stare at him, to put the pieces together.

“Give me a shirt to go home in,” is all you say before climbing off of him like he was a fucking ride at an amusement park.

Yeosang sits up on his elbows, his own chest heaving, covered in slick from the bridge of his nose to his chin. He licks his lips, whatever skin his tongue can reach, just to savor the taste.

You’re pulling your bra over your chest, grabbing your shorts from his hardwood floor. “Are they in the same drawer?” You ask, not even looking at him. Then you’re before his dresser, opening his tee shirt drawer, grabbing a random white one, pulling it over your head.

It swallows you, down to mid-thigh. Yeosang’s head feels fuzzy, he searches for words inside of himself, he can’t find any. You turn to him, face tight, eyes blown, pupils dilated enough to swallow the color.

“This was the last time, Yeosang,” you say, but you don’t look like you mean it. “I mean it.”

All he can do is grin. He can smell the lie from where he lays.

“You guys don’t have to come.”

Aven and Jongho flanked him, his two best friends, the only two to understand Yeosang down to atoms and particles. Other than you, he supposed; but that was neither here nor there, and he knows you shouldn’t be on his mind, anyway.

“I want to hear your new song,” Aven, on his right, walks in-step with him, while Jongho trails just a step behind. 

The latter adds, “This is the only day this week I have off from practice.”

Yeosang’s giddy. He was just being nice, saying they don’t have to come, but the truth is that he’s elated that his friends are coming to his band practice with him. Really, he has plenty of things to be happy about.

You’ve shared his bed twice since the last time. The first time, you’d come over under the guise of giving him his shirt back, just to leave in a different one. The second time, you didn’t have much of an excuse. You’d walked inside his apartment like you owned it, then fucked Yeosang like you owned him. And, in a sense, he supposed you did. 

The air feels warmer, the sun feels brighter, the grass looks as green as his hair. Pink and orange flowers blooming on trees wafted sweet-smelling air straight into his nose, as if a reminder to appreciate all that he came across, that everything was okay and will be okay. His life is going back to normal, even if he’d uprooted all of it.

“We have three original songs for our gig at Eonian in two weeks,” Yeosang says, turning the corner that Jay’s house sat on, an older two-story home on the corner, just outside of campus. An easy walk from his apartment, Aven’s apartment, Jongho’s apartment. “The rest are covers.”

Yeosang can hear Jisung shredding, Jongseob on the drums, even from around the corner. Jay’s voice becomes clearer the closer they get, a rough, heavy tone; perfect for the punk genre of music they make, perform.

The garage door was wide open, the inside refurbished into a make-shift studio. Not really. It was the same worn-down garage that came with the home, posters on the walls, the same shelves sitting at the far corner holding mechanic supplies and tools of the sort. Jongseob’s drum set sat at the center of the room, mic stands and amps scattered around the space, Jay’s garage was a cookie-cutter neighborhood’s worst nightmare.

The music died out when the three men caught Yeosang’s head of green hair rounding the corner. Shouts of about damn time, finally, and get in here all met his ears at once, making him flinch. 

“I’m sorry!” Yeosang threw his arms up in defense, then threw a thumb pointing behind him. “I had to stop and get these two.”

Jisung’s cheeks went pink at the sight of Aven. “Oh– oh. Hi, guys.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes, pulling on the strap of the nylon guitar bag to get it over his head. Jisung wore a baseball cap on his head, the hood of his zip-up laid on top, his cheeks and white smile the only things visible in the shadows of his hood. Fender strapped around his front, his fingers holding the neck, his body language morphed to something smaller. He’s always had a crush on Aven, and Aven’s always allowed him to.

“Hi, Hanji,” her head tilted, lashes fluttering.

“Hey,” Jongho smacked her arm. A warning.

Yeosang snorted. He pulled his bass from the bag, slinging the strap over his head, and played a few chords just to check the tuning as he made his way toward his spot, just beside Jay, opposite of Jisung.

Jay, lead guitarist and lead singer, took a step forward as Yeosang plugged the chord of the amp into his bass. “You’re happy today.”

Short, cropped hair, midnight-colored and gelled into spikes, his outfit was everything punk. Yeosang lifted a brow, “Yeah? It’s nice out.”

“It’s nice out everyday,” Jay slims his eyes and Yeosang feels his stomach tumble. Fuck Jay for knowing him so well already. “What’s new?”

“You have that freshly-fucked look about you,” Jongseob gleams from behind his drumset. Sitting centered behind the toms, cymbals surrounding him, he twirls a stick in one hand, his blonde hair tied up and braided into an upstyle that made him look feminine. The youngest, a freshman, but he was the fan favorite.

Yeosang’s laugh is nervous, he can’t help it. “What? No.”

Everyone’s face falls as they land on Yeosang. From Jongseob, who looked somewhat surprised, to Jongho standing just over the lifted line of the garage entrance, silence had fallen over the open space like a weighted blanket.

Jongho was the one to interject, “You’re lying and nervous.”

“Holy shit,” Aven mumbles under her breath, eyes sparkling with discovery. “It’s her.”

“No,” Jisung stands a little straighter, eyes going wide. “Yeosang, no.”

Yeosang’s heart is in his asshole. He starts with a rebuttal, shaking his head rapidly, “No it’s not, no it’s not. I don’t know what you guys are talking about.”

“Do you not remember what state you were in when you joined the band?” Jay asks, face angled in disappointment. “You’re like a fucking girl, going back to a shitty ex. I’ve been the shitty ex that girls have gone back to, Yeo, and it doesn’t fuckin’ end well.”

“Okay, well, you suck,” Yeosang’s lips form a line. “We’re seeing each other again, big deal.”

He knew you were not seeing each other again. He knew that it wasn’t anything more than sex.

Yeosang catches Aven throwing a hand over her mouth from the corner of the garage, he sees Jongho shaking his head slowly. But it’s Jongseob who asks, “I thought she was fucking Jaemin now?”

“Jaemin doesn’t fuck her like I do.” Yeosang quips, catching himself smiling, giddy as hell. But his face falls immediately when he takes in the five pairs of eyes on him, all staring with heavy disappointment. Clear distaste. 

“Has she stayed over?” Jongho asks, arms crossed over his chest. Long shorts, a black tee tucked in, hair styled over his forehead, he wore the silent accusation in the thin line of his lips. Yeosang swallows. Shaking his head, he tries not to let the shame show in his eyes. Jongho smacks his teeth, “I thought so.”

Yeosang can feel the heat on his cheeks. “It’s not a big deal–”

“She hurt you,” Aven continues, “because you pursued your passion. Do you really want to be with someone like that? Who wants to be with you for looks, the image it portrays, instead of liking you for you?”

Yeosang can feel the frustration bubbling up inside him, overflowing before he has the chance to close the lid. “Are you in any place to give me shit? You’ve been fucking the same guy for four months, and he won’t even–”

Jongho cuts him clean off, “Do not finish that sentence.”

Yeosang didn’t even realize that he stepped forward, that his chest was heaving. For years they’ve bickered like siblings, saying the truth even when it hurts. Yeosang nods at Jongho, taking a steadying pause, silently thanking him for interrupting before he said something he’d regret. Wooyoung was the touchiest subject of them all for Aven, four months of back-and-forth, a relationship hidden in the shadows. He supposed he couldn’t give her shit, anymore, either.

“We just care about you,” Jay admits from beside him, the center of the makeshift-garage-stage. “And we don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Yeosang’s jaw ticks. “I know what I’m doing.”

He can feel the phantom stretch of his nose growing an inch longer. The lie burns. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

Yeosang hears his door open, then close. He doesn’t even look, he knows it’s you, no one else would be barging into his apartment after the sun goes down, it’s the entire reason he left his front door open. 

Tuning his bass on the couch, he’s sitting hunched over it, eyes on the heads, thumb on a string. He hears you come closer, stopping on the other side of his coffee table, he’s willing to bet a thousand dollars you have your hands on your hips, weight beared on one side of your body.

When he looks up, he makes a mental note that he owes himself a thousand dollars. Standing in his hoodie, it comes down to mid-thigh, swallowing the shorts he wasn’t completely sure you were wearing. He blinks, you’re staring. Hard. 

“What, you don’t care that I’m here?” You finally bark out, arms crossing over your chest. “I could have been, like, a murderer or something.”

“I knew it was you,” Yeosang answers, then brings his attention back to the instrument on his lap, playing a chord. His top lip lifts, he tweaks the head. “I know your footsteps.”

There’s a pause before you kick your shoes off, walking towards his kitchen. He eyes your flip flops sprawled across the rug beneath his coffee table, making yourself at home, when this wasn’t your home. At one time you’d treated his apartment just like this, walking in unannounced, leaving your shit wherever because you could, because you shared just as much of Yeosang’s space as he did.

He looks over his shoulder, watching your head of hair bop around his kitchen, silently. After a moment, you hold up a laptop charger and turn to him. “Who’s charger is this? It’s not your laptop charger.”

His lips flatten, a sigh threatening to escape. “It’s Aven’s, she was here earlier with Jongho, studying.”

Your brows raise a millimeter. “Aven’s,” you repeat. “They were here studying.”

“Here we go,” he says under his breath. 

You cross the kitchen, back into his living room, eyebrows tied together as you make your stand beside the couch. “She’s here often, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Yeosang says, voice flat. “Just like she always has.”

Your eye twitches. “And she just leaves things here, often?”

“No, she has a lot going on right now.”

Your face blows into surprise, disgust. “Oh, and now you’re making excuses for her.”

“She’s literally dating Mingi,” Yeosang argues, hating the taste of the lie on his tongue. “Why is this a big deal?”

“It’s not,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. You walk back to the kitchen, putting the laptop charger back where you found it, white chord glowing atop the charcoal granite. You used a little more force in dropping it than necessary. You keep your voice steady as you say, “Jaemin asked me to go get drinks tomorrow after his game.”

He can hear the control you’re reaching for as the words leave your lips. He asks, “Yeah? You going?”

He wasn’t sure what you were doing in his kitchen now. He plays another chord, and it sounds smooth. “I think so,” you respond. “Probably.”

Yeosang doesn’t know what kind of strength he has in his soul that made him respond, “Good, you should go.”

There’s a pause, he doesn’t hear your bare feet moving across the tiled floor of his kitchen. His fingers pick at the strings, strumming a small, melodic, funky rhythm. Then he hears your feet slapping against wood as you trudge into the living room, beside his couch again, face twisted up in confusion. “You don’t care if I get drinks with Jaemin?”

“Why should I?” Yeosang asks. You wouldn’t be telling him if you were actually going, you wouldn’t be telling him if Jaemin had actually asked you, but his heart is below the hem of his shorts, anyway. “You’re not my girlfriend, are you?”

“No,” you answer simply, happily, almost. Yeosang plays another beat, another strum of chords, his finger catching the wrong strong, the entire melody clashing. He didn’t realize his fingers had started shaking. You grin, “I knew it.”

Yeosang’s head snaps to the side, “Knew what?”

“You’re jealous.” You’re smirking, arms crossed, accomplished.

All five of Yeosang’s fingers point toward the kitchen, “You just flipped shit over a laptop charger.”

“Because it’s hers!” You argue, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You have a girl over here every other day, leaving her shit here, her hair-ties, her charger. What’s next, her clothes? Tampons in your bathroom?”

“It’s Aven,” Yeosang reiterates, like the mention of her name was enough explanation. “She’s been my best friend for years, you know this.” You blink at him, and his lips curve in a grin. “You’re jealous.”

“Why the fuck would I be jealous?” you spit out, arms uncurling from where they sat twisted over your chest. “I’m the one that’s fucking you.”

Yeosang can’t help but laugh. Head tipping back, bass and body slumping into the couch cushions, his laugh is genuine, straight from his belly. “You–” he tries to get out, head turning to the side, laughter still barreling out of him. “You tried to make me jealous with Jaemin, the fucking kicker.”

Your body feels hot. You’re positive your face is flushed, arms crossing right back over your chest again, you could stomp your fucking foot in irritation. “You’re so fucking aggravating, Yeosang.”

“Yet you’re here,” he responds, his laughter dying down to a breathy giggle. “Look at where you’re standing.”

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, body ignited, growing hotter by the second. Just his stare, chocolate eyes, long lashes, knowing they were fixed on you made you feel two feet tall. You don’t answer, not as he pulls his bass off his body, setting it down beside him on the floor, the neck leaning against the couch. You can hear your heartbeat, feel the heat on your skin, sweat prickling beneath your hoodie. His hoodie.

“We’re not dating,” you finally announce. “We aren’t exclusive.”

“I know,” he nods once. “Which means you’re free to go do whatever with the kicker.”

You hate the way he mocks him, the way he says kicker like it’s an insult– he doesn’t even play anymore. Jaemin’s nice; a little stupid, he definitely doesn’t let you rough him up, and he certainly doesn’t know any of the kinks you keep buried, revealed to Yeosang and Yeosang only.

“I do,” you lie. “And I’ll continue to. Just wanted to make sure you were aware.”

Yeosang sits up a little straighter. “Aware of what? The possibility of getting an STD?”

Irritation only makes you burn hotter. “He’s clean, Yeosang, and so am I.”

“You sure?” his brows lift. He’s taunting you. “When’s the last time you got tested?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me that,” you pull your hands out from your sleeves to count on your fingers, “a few weeks ago, before you fucked me raw, came inside me, let me sit on your face? Or how about when I had your cock down my throat? Shouldn’t you have wondered before that?”

He shrugs, a small thing. “Forgive me for having trust in you.”

“Trust,” the word makes you laugh. “Because there’s so much trust in what we have.”

Yeosang stands, his bulky build swallowing you, height towering over you. You can’t believe your body forced you to swallow.

“We don’t have anything,” he uses emphasis on the last word. “As per your choice. You come here to fuck, blow off steam, you come here to get what no one else can give you. You tell me that only you can make me feel this way, but what about you? Who else is fulfilling every little thing your nasty fuckin’ mind gets off on?”

Your breath catches. He continues, “And you want me angry over Jaemin? Did you forget I know him, and know him well? That I was on the same team as him? Lived in the same house as him?” You don’t answer, eyes widening, you can feel your pupils dancing below your lids, trying to gauge his next move. “You don’t think I know that he drinks whiskey like it’s water, and can barely get it up half the time? That when you fucked him—which I’m sure was, what, once or twice?—he busted after three strokes and was already asleep by the time he rolled off you.”

You can feel your heart beating, an unsteady thrum in your chest. “You’re wrong, Yeosang.”

He’s right.

“Does he let you call him names?” He asks. You notice that his green hair has faded a little, framing his sculpted, flushed cheeks. His birthmark seemed brighter, more opaque, a spot you’ve kissed a million times, it beckoned you to do it again. “Does he let you slap him? Does he let you choke him? Does he call you mommy?”

You gasp. It’s small, but it’s clear, slicing through the air between your faces. Every ounce of you wishes you could suck it back in, retract it, feign that his words were doing nothing to you. It would be useless, anyhow, he knows you down to the bone, keeping any sort of emotion from him proved futile time and time again.

“Answer me,” Yeosang urges, and there’s nothing in his voice that’s calm. The subdued, submissive man you’ve spent countless hours with is nowhere to be seen. The muted hum of adrenaline swimming through your body zaps at the base of your spine, like it’d been woken up, branching off to every nerve ending.

“No,” you whisper, hating that you’re admitting it, but what choice was there? “He doesn’t.”

“I know,” Yeosang grins. There’s no warmth in it, it’s sly, mocking. Like all of that was just to get you to say it. “Remember that, the next time you want to make me jealous of the goddamn kicker.”

His chest is flushed pink beneath the white tank he wore. Heaving, rising rapidly, lowering just enough to suck more air in. He’s pissed, and you don’t know why the sight is going straight to the throb in your panties. Never once has Yeosang been dominant, never once has he been mad at you, never once has Yeosang not been the submissive man you trained.

“When he does fuck me,” you start, and you genuinely have no idea where you’re going with it. “He’s… rough. He does to me what I do to you.”

Lies. You’re lying through your fucking teeth. To anyone else, Yeosang would seem unbothered. But you see the flash in his eyes, the deepening of chocolate to coal, how his lips peeled back from his teeth ever so slightly. 

“And I like it,” you breathe. “I like it better.”

There’s a semblance of amusement in the curve of his brow. “Yeah?”

You nod, “He’s better than you. Bigger than you, too.”

The snag in Yeosang’s grin, you’ve never seen before. Mischievous, like he was already planning the million-and-one ways he’d break you apart. It makes your toes curl into the hardwood beneath your feet, your fingers twitch, your heart double in speed. Excitement, thrill, that’s what was passing through the air between you, a stand-off of sorts.

Do it, you think, hoping, praying he can hear you. Do it, Yeosang.

And he does. 

His lips find yours in a hasty crash, his right hand reaching for your throat. Unsteady, uncontrolled movements, not entirely full of confidence but not insecure, either. You moan into it, the sound desperate and relieving all at once, and his fingers tighten. Pressing against the sides of your neck, weight on your veins, your eyes flutter beneath your lids, knees trembling. 

“This what you want?” He asks into your mouth, breath heavy, panting like he’s been waiting for this. 

Your knee hooks over his hip, “Yes, Yeo, yesyesyes.”

His hand leaves your throat, grabbing at the leg you threw over his body, using just that one fucking hand under your thigh to lift you off the floor. You answer with your other leg, he catches it swiftly, moving your bodies backward, toward his bedroom. Never breaking the kiss, your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging at his roots with enough force that he hisses into your mouth.

He throws you back on the bed instead of laying you down delicately, and as your back hits the mattress, your eyes peel open to catch the sight of him. Pupils dilated, cheeks splotched, forehead kissed with moisture, he looked at you with such hunger it made your back arch off the fucking bed.

“Teasing me,” he mutters, and you think he’s talking more to himself than to you as he climbs over your frame. “Dangling him right in front of my fucking face like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“Yeah?” you push his hair off his face, throwing your legs over his muscled thighs. “What are you gonna do about it, then?”

He studies you for a cool, calm second before moving. Sitting back on his calves, he pulls your body flush to him, then he flips you over in one swift movement. With a yelp, you’re on your stomach, eyes wide and legs parted, hips lifted off the mattress.

“What can you take?” He asks, and instinctively, you weren’t sure if it was rhetorical. “What’s he do when he fucks you rough?”

Without you answering, he pushes the back of your hoodie up, fingers digging in the elastic of your shorts, pulling them over your ass. You whimper, pushing yourself up by your knees to help him get them off you. 

Elastic rolled around your thighs, he lands a harsh smack to your ass. You barely get a cry out before he’s repeating himself, “I asked you a question.”

“Fuck,” is all you can get out, nails curling into the duvet beneath you. “H-he fucks– he fucks me hard.”

You don’t have time to wonder if he’s buying the bullshit you’re spewing, not when he gets your shorts down to your knees, then down and off your ankles. Two strong, callused hands lift you by the hips, hiking you upward until you’re on your knees. 

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he hisses from behind you, painting a finger through your folds. A moan forces itself through your lips at the stimulation, thighs already shaking. Did he know you were lying from the jump? Was he doing it anyway?

“‘m not lying,” you whimper in response, knees spreading further, needing more. 

“If you wanted me rough, you could have just asked.” You can hear the ruffle of his shorts sliding down his thighs, the elastic of his briefs snapping against his skin. Then you feel his length, his tip, sliding against your folds, spreading the slick that’s already gathered. “Aren’t we past the point of pretending I wouldn’t do anything for you?”

The question lights you up like a Christmas tree, but sends a pit of something other to your gut simultaneously. You weren’t sure how to break down the feeling, you didn’t have the brain power to try, not when his tip was prodding at your entrance without prep, without stretch, without anything. 

“Yeosang!” You squeal, turning your head to the side, trying to catch even a glimpse of green over your shoulder. But then he’s pushing in, and the feeling sucks all the air from your chest, forcing your eyes to squeeze shut. 

“Baiting me,” he gruffs out, like he was talking through his teeth. “Telling me Jaemin’s bigger than me when I’ve seen his fucking cock. We lived together. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“N-no,” you whine, head in the clouds, somewhere else entirely. His hips snap against yours, a rough, nasty pace; sliding over the front side of your walls, massaging you deliciously, all you can do is shake with pleasure. 

“You talk so much shit, run your fucking mouth,” he says, fucking into you like he was strumming along to a beat. “What happened to you didn’t fuck me, I fucked you? Huh? Look who’s getting fucked now.”

You think you might be crying, face hot, mouth pried open. Your fingers lose their grip on the duvet, body completely at Yeosang’s mercy, to his hips that snap against yours brutally, relentlessly.

“Quiet now?” He asks, then his thrusts stop completely. His hands grab for your arms, pulling you backward, up toward him. He grabs your hoodie by the hem, pulling it over your head, throwing it elsewhere; then one hand splays across your stomach, the other up at your throat, and he fucks into you again like he never stopped. “Did I break the fucking bitch inside you?”

Your body folds. Or tries to, a loud, uncensored cry ripping from your throat. He holds you steady, two hands keeping your back pressed to his chest, his mouth on your ear.

“You liked that, huh?” He asks, amusement playing in his tone. “Good to know, for the next time you want to make fun of me because I call you mommy, I’ll remind you of today. Of tonight.”

“Yeosang,” you whimper, eyelids fluttering again, your hands searching for his, clasped around your body. Tugging, pulling at them, nails clawing into him, he doesn’t budge. 

“Mm,” he moans into your ear. “I don’t think so. Should I make you call me daddy? Call me sir?”

Your head tips back, falling limp against his chest, the pocket of skin between his pec and his shoulder. “Yeosang.”

His hips switch into a nasty grind, cock dragging against your walls perfectly, his hand drops from over your stomach to between your thighs. Two fingers rub at your clit at the same pace his cock fucks into you, and you nearly fold again.

“Shit!” you gasp out, “shit, shit, shit.”

“Ask me,” he says from behind you, voice clear like you were the only one losing your mind. Pressure looms, pleasure building steadily with each circle he traces. “Ask me if you can cum.”

You think you might have whiplash. It makes sense, you think, in all the months you’ve dommed him, all the times you’ve said nasty shit, for him to pocket every single movement, every single sentence.

You whimper, “Please.”

He grunts. “Ask. Me.”

“Please, Yeosang,” you urge, eyes finally cracking open. And thank god you did, because the sight before you threatens to rip the breath from your lungs all over again. Green hair stuck to his forehead, bleeding down his cheeks, over the red mark beside his eye. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and crazed; you nearly cum on the spot. Instead, you ask, “Can I cum? Please?”

He kisses you, forgoing a response, forcing you to hold it. His tongue slides into your mouth, teeth clashing against yours, so messy and hot you find yourself teetering scarily on the edge, thinking of anything to delay the inevitable. 

“No,” he says into your mouth, the word final.

Despair seems like a tangible thing. A sob cracks from your throat as he lifts his fingers from your clit, sliding out of you, and pushing you face-first onto the mattress. Your body might be jerking, twitching, twisting– you weren’t exactly sure, because too quickly his hands hook under your legs again, flipping you onto your back. 

“Denial sucks, doesn’t it?” he asks, grin wide. You wished you had the brainwidth to wonder how he was so good at this, where this experience came from. The easiest answer would be from you. He pushes your knees up to your chest, settling between them, callused palm leaving your skin only to line himself up with your entrance.

Pushing in smoothly, he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, muffling his moan of pleasure. You reach for him, his face, his shoulders, his hair, and he gives you all three as he leans down, elbows bracketing your head. His lips find yours, tongue and teeth and spit, another messy conjoining with the slick sounds of his hips hitting the backs of your thighs. 

“Want you to cum, just like this,” he says, voice quiet, barely more than a ragged breath. His bottom lip stays on yours, sharing breath, sharing space. And for a moment, staring into his eyes, you’re scared.

It’d be easy to get addicted to this, you think. To him, all over again. When you were together, it was addiction; it was daily, sharing spit, sharing space, him inside you like that was his first home, then the apartment surrounding you. With Jaemin, with anyone else, on the field, you performed. You acted, you were someone other than yourself, living outside of your skin.

You’ve never had to perform with Yeosang. Other than the acts you enjoy putting on, the displays of dominance– submission now, too. It was natural, fitting, like water and ice, matchstick and flame. Running back and captain of the cheerleading team.

Staring into his eyes, panting into his mouth, clenching around him as euphoria swallows you whole, there’s a part of you that damns him for quitting football. For stretching the gap between you, ruining routine, forcing you into having feelings for a fucking bassist of a garage band.

He had everything. He had it all. He had a future, he had stability, he had routine– he had you. 

And he ruined all of it. For what? 

He kisses you as he empties himself inside you, spit warming your tongue, filling the space where your breath had dried it. You push the feelings down, the wave of dread, the feeling of everything crumbling around you. You let his weight on your chest be a comfort, the smell of him, a little weedy, sweaty and Yeosang. 

There was no one else on the planet who understood you like him. There was no one else who could satisfy you like him. There was no one else who could handle everything that you are.

The thought haunts you, that he might accept you for all of it. Pom-poms, glitter, bi-weekly manicures, a nasty personality and a sex drive that challenged a virgin’s. He might even like the parts of you that you consider a nuisance, the parts that even you can’t comprehend.

Would anyone else pay so much attention? Would anyone else learn you down to what’s at your core?

“Why are you crying?” he asks, face warped into confusion, concern.

You blink. Once, twice before your hands are flying to your face, wiping at your tears. “Subdrop, maybe,” you laugh a little, nervous. Embarrassed. “Happens sometimes. Never been on this side of it before.”

He moves your hair out of your face, swiping his thumb under your eye. He shakes his head once, “Can I get you anything? Water? Food? A shower? Clothes?” 

“Jesus, Yeosang,” you laugh again, the sound fully forced out of your chest as you push him off you. Sitting up, you can feel the rumbling of emotion in your chest. You push it down, down, down. “I’m fine.”

He stares at you for a long second, and you shudder under the weight of it. Moving, your legs aching, you swing them over the edge of the bed, running a hand through your hair. Sheepishly, you look over your shoulder, “Maybe water?”

“Lay with me,” he says, naked and flushed, chest still heaving. Eyes softer now, less terrified, a comfort. “Five minutes.”

This wasn’t right. Usually it was you offering comfort, you’ve never been the one having the come-down after a release of emotion. Of control. 

You swallowed, face heating. But you nodded, and then laid back down.

And as his body engulfed you with sticky, sweaty heat, it terrified you that there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

He didn’t mean to pass you. 

Not really. 

But on the way to the Arts Building, if he took the long way, especially if he really needed to get his steps in… it’s for his stamina, he swears, to keep his lungs strong onstage. That's the only reason he passed the field, rounding the corner of the one-hundred-twenty yard turf. It just so happened that he passed by your side, catching a glimpse of your black, tiny shorts, your black sports bra, white Nfinity sneakers on your feet. 

Hands on your hips at the top of the formation, stood opposite of the rest of the team, your team, nodding your head with each beat of the actually kinda sick song. Heavy bass, guitar riffs, vocals dim and monotone. Not a competition mix, then. 

He hears your voice yell over the turf, bold and dominant, a captain’s voice. “Five, six, seven, eight. Tight! Tight, strong, clean. Get it right!”

Yeosang pauses for a second, his own head nodding along to the beat, watching the twenty-something girls with their hands balled in fists burst into quick, clean movements. Over their heads in a V, hands on their hips, knees bent as they damn near glide into their next formation, fluid with the song. 

He kicks his feet into motion as you bark out another order, a girl’s name. He’s lucky he played football instead of being a cheerleader, he thinks, he doesn’t know if he’d survive you as his captain.

But it’s sexy nonetheless, seeing you in your element, guiding, controlling, watching with a calculating eye, picking out mistakes as soon as you see them. A perfectionist, someone who thinks good isn’t good enough, a captain who cares about her team, how they’re perceived. How they rank. 

You don’t see him, thank god. But that means he still has to pass his team—his old team—and he wonders if it was worth it to catch a glimpse of your boobs tucked into your bra or your ass peeking out of the legs of your bloomers. 

He snorts to himself. Of course it was.

Eyes trickling down to the field, opposite of where you practice, he recalls all the time he’s spent on the turf. Drills, sprints, positional work, formations, it’s weird looking down to the green, the guys on it, and feeling nothing. He could cling to nostalgia all he wanted, the feeling he had when he scored, when he won a big game for his team. 

But he didn’t miss being down there. He didn’t miss those guys at all. And he feels guilty for it, because they never did anything bad to him.

He spots Mingi, the quarterback, his hair dark, long and sweaty, visible without a helmet on. He’s dancing on his cleat-covered toes, football between his gloved palms, watching Haechan run down the field, waiting to throw the ball. He can remember the days when it was himself sprinting down the field, adrenaline pushing his legs harder, faster, readying himself for Mingi’s no-doubt perfect pass. 

His mind wanders, thinking of Aven, thinking of those two, together. Part of Yeosang worries that she’ll get hurt in her plan to hurt Wooyoung, that Mingi would crack the last bits of her that still wanted to try, that still had hope of a relationship, of love. 

He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. If anything, Aven will eat him alive. 

His ears catch onto a particularly loud yell, and his head snaps backward, watching as you saunter out on the turf, fingers pointing, voice lashing. He laughs to himself as he watches you correct someone’s form, physically fixing her arms into place, throwing your hands over hers to strengthen her fists. 

Yeah, he wouldn’t survive you as his captain. Thank god he played football. 

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he dials Jay, wondering if the younger man was in class, or home. With a seven-second long conversation, he turned on his heel, and headed home to grab his bass, instead. 

Twenty minutes before he ended up in Jay’s garage, he was thankful his lead singer didn’t press him about the reason he was there. Jay didn’t question Yeosang at all, the two understood each other differently than the other two– what music meant, how it shaped a person. Jisung and Jongseob were in class, leaving Yeosang and Jay standing on opposite sides of the garage, their instruments plugged in, and in complete verbal silence, they played. 

Finding each other’s melodies, adapting when the other switched, trying to keep in-tune with one another, it was a game. A challenge. A fun one, Yeosang quickly realized, sweat kissing his brow, his tongue poking out between his lips in focus, listening to Jay while simultaneously moving his own fingers, slapping his bass to the tune of the younger man’s electric guitar. 

This is what Yeosang lived for. Music has always been vital; morning workouts, evening workouts, a playlist he had plenty of songs forced into ringing through the speakers during practices. When he was younger, his parents had music playing almost all the time. He woke up to soft rock, ate lunch to metal, played in his backyard to pop, ate dinner to jazz, fell asleep to classical.

He first picked up an acoustic guitar when he was eight. His first song might have been Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but as soon as he learned the chords, the strings, how to move his fingers along a fretboard, it was over. Yeosang came home from school and picked up his guitar like it was the only thing he cared about— the only thing he lived for. 

And for a long, long time, it was. The first time he picked up a bass he was twelve. Different from guitar, the neck was longer, the strings were thicker, Yeosang quickly became obsessed with how if you aren’t listening, you can’t pin-point where the bass is in a song. But if you really listen, if you look for it, you’ll know that bass is vital. 

Rhythmic precision, in-sync with the beat of the drums, the sounds coming from a bass guitar are low, but not any quieter. A song without bass is hollow, depthless. For whatever reason, Yeosang became infatuated with the idea, with the fact that if he played bass, if he mastered it, he’d be as vital as the instrument.

Then he learned he was really good at catching a football, and at that point Yeosang had so many hobbies he still to this day wonders how he made time for them all. Keeping up with guitar, with bass, and with football was a lot easier when he was twelve than when he was seventeen, getting scouted for college. Long talks with his guidance counselors, with his parents, and Yeosang knew that football was his choice. It’d put him through on a scholarship, and he could still play, he could still shred, but football was his top priority.

And for the first two years, he loved it. Life was easy— he lived in the football house, he had friends, his team, a shared routine with all of them, he’d found a family. He spent countless hours in his bedroom on the second floor, playing for no one. He’d bring his bass downstairs during parties, play it like it was his hidden party trick. No one knew what his bass meant to him, what music meant to him. He had Jongho and Aven for that, the two people he fully confided in, that knew the feelings he kept in the small corner of his conscience. For those first two years, that was enough.

The end of his sophomore year, when he met the younger man beside him, Jay had heard through the grapevine that Yeosang played bass, and approached him in his lecture hall looking for a bassist for his band. Jisung, Jongseob, two younger guys he didn’t know at all, Yeosang almost laughed in his face, almost asked Jay if he knew who he was. 

When he met you, for those first few weeks, everything in his life cracked open. He started playing more, he became addicted to it all over again, the weight of mahogany on his lap, strapped over his shoulder. Slapping his callused fingertips on strings and being mesmerized with the sounds that it made, he played often, any moment he could find, with you always at the forefront of his mind. He cared less about football, only that you were on the other side of the field, or on the sideline. He didn’t really care about his teammates, was it so terrible that the only weight they held for him was surface-level friendship? He started focusing on the things that mattered, whatever brought him joy.

You, and his bass. Jongho and Aven, too, when they weren’t a pain in his ass.

It was hours now that he’d spent in Jay’s garage, but thankfully, Jay didn’t bring you up once. As if the younger man knew Yeosang was plunging balls-deep in his own mind, and didn’t want to bring it to the surface. They talked about their show instead, in a week and a half, at the bar they frequented on Fourth Avenue, just outside of campus. It wasn’t their first show at the dingy dive, but they had more original songs now then they did last time they performed there, and pressure was a weight he gladly bore. 

“I have an idea,” Yeosang told Jay, the pair in beach chairs on his driveway now. A pizza sat on a folding table between them, two brown bottles of beer on the cement beside their chairs. 

Jay popped a brow, “Yeah?”

“A song to cover,” Yeosang says, reaching down to grab his beer bottle, bringing it up to his lips. Swallowing, flushing down the pizza, he continues, “For the show at Eonian.” 

“The show is in like, a week.” Jay shook his head. “Fuck no.” 

“Come on,” Yeosang leaned forward in his beach chair. “Do you trust me?” 

“Fine, I’ll bite.” Jay says, reaching for his beer. Bringing it up to his mouth, his bottom lip touching the rim, he asks, “What song is it?” 

Yeosang’s lips pursed. “I don’t know. Yet.” 

“You don’t know?”

“I just heard it,” Yeosang explains, cheeks flushing pink. This is what he gets for speaking without thinking. “I’ll find out tonight, play it for you tomorrow.”

“I don’t doubt that, you fuckin’ weirdo,” Jay laughs to himself. “It creeps me out when you do that, learn a song just by listening to it.” 

Yeosang shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.

When he gets back to his apartment, immediately he's on his couch, sitting over his bass, on the couch, trying to play the melody from memory. He thinks he has one section down, maybe, possibly, by the time you’re bursting through his apartment, right on-time.

His front door slams behind you. You’re still half-dressed, but at least you had a shirt on now. Even if it was his, and the bottom hem was tucked up into the band of your sports bra, showing off the stretch of skin from your upper abdomen down to the waistband of your shorts. 

Your hair was still tied up, off your face, white sneakers still on your feet. Fresh off the field, then. “I’m irritated.”

Fresh off the field and pissed. Yeosang sits a little further back on the couch, readjusting himself, waiting for the explanation. 

“Those girls have no fucking respect,” you throw your wristlet onto his coffee table, arms crossing over your chest.

“Karina?” Yeosang asks, remembering when you were appointed captain at the end of the previous captain’s, Jihyo’s, reign. Karina is the only one on your team who never accepted that you were captain, and not herself. 

“Karina and her evil fucking minion, Giselle,” you snap, eyes big and raging. “I think they’re doing it on purpose. Either to get me to step down or get my rank removed, but the joke’s on them, because neither is going to fucking happen.” 

 Walking from one side of his rug to the other, you keep going. “We’re doing a pep rally next week, and I was told about it a week ago. I only had a few days to choreograph a routine before we needed to start practicing, and I did, now I don’t know if it’s because of where Karina is placed in the formation, but the ones that are watching her are copying her. These girls have been cheering for years, Yeosang, we’re a D1 fucking school and they can’t learn a routine in a few days?”

Yeosang’s lips flatten. “You’re putting in the work and they aren’t.” 

You stop in your tracks. “You’re right, it’s literally only me putting in work, isn't it? I need to talk to my coach, I don’t know how half of these girls made it onto the fucking team.”

“I could probably learn the routine quicker than them,” Yeosang shrugs. 

You nod ecstatically, “You could. You literally fucking could, Yeosang. You should see these girls, it’s like they’ve never cheered a day in their life.”

“Show me the routine,” Yeosang says.

You pop a brow, standing still, palms finding your hips. “What?” 

“Show me,” Yeosang shrugs, then smiles. “Let me see if I can do it.”

“No!” You shake your head like the idea was ridiculous. “I’m not cheering for you, that’s embarrassing.” 

“Okay, fine,” he huffs. “At least let me hear the mix.”

“It’s not a mix,” you say, quieter. Voice small, like you were even embarrassed of that. “It's a song.” 

Yeosang tilts his chin up. “Let me hear it.”

As you pick up your wristlet, unzipping it to pull out your phone that somehow fits in the tiny, skinny thing, Yeosang’s grip tightens on the frets of his bass, fingers steadying over the strings. 

It takes you only a moment to pull up the song, to press play, like you hadn’t even checked your phone after finishing practice, you had come straight here. He doesn’t let the thought linger as the beat starts playing through the small speakers, Yeosang’s ears straining to pick apart the melody like he could see the sheet music in front of him. 

He nods his head as you nod yours, your limbs moving like you couldn’t stop yourself from micro-performing if you tried. Counting in his head, gauging the sound, the rhythm, the beat, Yeosang’s fingers start moving. 

Your eyes fly to his bass, wide, then back up to him. He starts playing, flawlessly, as if he’d heard the song a million times before. 

“What?” You mumble under your breath, eyes locked in on where his fingers smack at his strings. “How the fuck are you doing that?” 

Yeosang smiles, pride in the display of teeth, head nodding along as his fingers pluck the strings. A monotonous beat, his other hand barely moves on the frets.

He gets it now. The song takes shape in his head, his lips scrunch in satisfaction, tongue poking out, nodding to the beat he plays without even looking now.

You look starstruck. Unblinking, stuck in place, eyes wide, jaw slack. You take a step forward, like you couldn’t believe it, like Yeosang was a fucking hologram or something. 

“Yeo, that’s really fucking cool,” you almost whisper. Your eyes meet his again, finally blinking, fast enough that Yeosang thinks you might’ve actually convinced yourself he was an illusion. “How do you do that? Can you do that with any song? How do you know how to play it?” 

Yeosang shrugs off what he takes as compliments. “I’ve kinda always been able to,” he explains. “I started playing guitar when I was eight, bass when I was twelve.”

Your jaw drops further as you round the coffee table, taking your spot next to him on his couch. “That long? Like, over a decade?” 

Yeosang snorts, “Yes, over a decade. It’s about time that I did something with it.” 

The song ends, you bury your phone in the couch cushion absent-mindedly, eyes twin saucers as you stare at him like he was a completely different person. “Is that what you want?” you ask, leaning into the back of the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. “To make it your career?”

He nods without hesitation. “I thought I wanted football… obviously, going to a D1 school and all. But then I met Jay, and realized that I only played football because I had to, then everything felt like it was moving in the same direction, y’know?”

“Like it was meant to be,” you offer. He nods. Your lips purse, scrunching to one side before you admit, “You seem happier.”

“Really?” He grins, teeth showing. “I guess I am, I like being onstage, I’ve always liked performing, actually.”

“I never thought that about you,” your eyes find the couch, a string of fuzz ripped from the seam. You pick at it with your manicured fingers, mumbling, “Outside of football, you seemed content being… hidden. Quiet, like a mouse. I guess that makes sense, though, you were kind of a star on the field.”

“Mingi’s the star,” Yeosang says. “He gets all the glory.” 

“Well, I was always cheering for you.” You finally look up at him, eyes sparkling, and he can feel his breath catch, hear it. So pretty, so perfect, he’s never loved anything in his fucking life the way he loves you. Maybe music. Maybe his bass. But there’s still the part of him that knows neither compared to what he feels for you, that you were the reason he fell back in love with music all over again.

“Would you still cheer for me?” He finds himself asking, but to him, it feels like a different question entirely. “When I’m onstage. Would you cheer for me in the crowd?”

Your head tilts, a playful smile taking over your entire face. “Wait, like, actually come to one of your shows?”

“Yes, actually,” he teases, shifting his body so he faces you a little more, bass still taking up space between you. He doesn’t mind it, though, barely notices it, not when your gaze fixed on him is hotter, brighter than stage lights. “Next Friday. Eonian.”

Your lips scrunch again, a cute flush spreading across the apples of your cheeks, your nose. “I don’t know, Yeosang.”

“You don’t have to be front and center,” he urges, “even though I know that’s where you love to be. Just…come see me play.”

You stare at him, eyes dancing across his face, contemplating. Your smile falls a little, and he knows you’re running through the events in your head, what could go wrong, what people would think, what it’d look like if you showed up for him. 

“I’ll think about it,” you nearly whisper, and he knows that not giving him an answer, avoiding yes or no, was intentional.

You’ve already made up your mind. He knows you won’t come. He can feel it, an icy chill spreading through his blood, prickling his scalp. Rejection.

All you have is sex. That’s all it’s been from the jump. 

He stands, placing his bass carefully in its stand, deciding that he didn’t want to stare at your perfect face anymore. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he asks, “Have you eaten?”

“No,” you admit. “I came straight from the field.” 

That, he knew. He knew you didn’t eat before he even asked the question. Without thought, without words he aims for his kitchen, sorting through his fridge for something that wasn’t prepped already, his cabinets for anything in-line with your diet which was just as extensive as his own.

“What are you doing?” In the entryway of his kitchen, your shoes are gone, you probably kicked them off somewhere on his rug.

He doesn’t look for longer than a millisecond. “Trying to find something to feed you with.”

“You can feed me something else.” Your voice lowered into velvet, he can hear the want lining your tone, slurring the words together. “I’m still irritated, and I’d rather fuck it out than eat right now.”

“Should I act surprised?” He quips, leaning his hip into the counter, brows flat.

You step closer, confusion spreading across your features. “Where’d the attitude come from?”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing as your feet land before his, your arms swinging around his neck. “I don’t have an attitude.”

You raise yourself on your toes to bring your face close to his as you say, “You do, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna redirect my irritation to you.”

Your fingers find his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, and his eyes close, lungs emptying. He can remember when you first came to his apartment, vulnerable and needy, asking to fuck him. You told him you had one good thing. He wonders if you were right.

Your lips press into his, soft, questioning, searching for the taste of yes on his mouth. His hands find your waist, lips parting, tongue slipping into your mouth to answer your silent ask. Always yes, he’d never deny you anything, he ignores the way his chest aches, how his throat constricts.

He can remember the day he picked up his bass from the corner of his bedroom at the football house, sitting on his bed, and playing the same measly love song he’d memorized years prior. He hummed the lyrics as he played, fucking up chords, his bass completely out of tune. He didn’t care, though, he could barely hear it over his thoughts swarming, every single one about you. The cheerleader he’d just started hooking up with, the one with a loud mouth and a pretty smile, the girl that made him feel whole again.

For a while, you just kissed. You turned him until his back hit the counter, hands in his hair as you kissed him breathless. Your tongue licked into his mouth like there was new space to cover, land to explore, like he felt new. He let you, mind wandering, hands falling under the tee shirt that swallowed your body, touching every inch of skin he could find, wondering if he’d ever feel the rush of picking up his bass from the corner of his bedroom like it was the first time again.

When you broke away from him, panting, fingers still curled in his hair, you kept his face close to yours, mouths barely an inch apart. He spoke first, though. “Thought you wanted to fuck it out.”

Your lips curve, a breathy laugh tumbling into his mouth. “Me too.”

You kiss him again, palms sliding across his chest, down to his abdomen, nothing about your touches felt impatient, or stemming from frustration. Like you were basking in him, as if he were the anchor bringing your temper, you back down to earth.

In the times that you’ve fucked since you knocked on his door those weeks ago, you’ve never just kissed. He isn’t sure if you’ve ever just kissed. The lack of heat, without promise, just exploratory, easy. Intimate, in a way, more intimate than his most vulnerable moments with you.

A man he is, with disgusting, primal, masculine instincts, the blood rushing below the hem of his shorts is anything but voluntary. He gasps when your front brushes against him, your body warm, your scent in his nose, stray hairs tickling his cheeks. You’re all over him, part of you lives inside him, it’s second nature that your spit on his tongue gets him hard. You smile into the kiss, and he can feel the shape of pride in it, the arrogance.

Your palm drops, ghosting over his length in his shorts and he moans. It’s pathetic, really, how easy he is, how fucking worked up you get him without even doing anything. Your palm lays flat, adding pressure, and he groans.

“Work for it,” you whisper, palm curving over his length, fingers gripping the width. Yeosang’s hands leave your waist to grab the edge of the counter behind him. “You know what to do. Make me proud.”

His hips rock once, experimentally grinding his length into your palm. His head tips back when he’s met with a wall of pressure, your hand unmoving, a surface for him to get off on. He can’t fight the high-pitched whimper that crawls up his throat, pleasure igniting each nerve ending in his body, the apples of his cheeks on fire because he can’t believe he’s getting himself off on your hand.

You make a small sound, maybe in awe, Yeosang isn’t sure. He rocks his hips faster, harder, broken moans and ragged breaths slurring together, completely unbothered by the fact that there were two layers of cloth between skin.

“So pretty when you’re like this,” you murmur, palm made of stone, warm like a boulder basking in the summer sun. “Thinking with your cock, doing anything I tell you to. Do you always get this hard when you kiss me?”

He forces out a breathy, “Yeah.”

“My pretty boy,” you coo, then smack your lips. “So good for me. Y’gonna get on your knees after I make you cum in your pants?”

He moans, head rocking forward again, features twisted tight. “Fuck, yeah, yes.”

“You want it? Don’t wanna fill me up?”

He bares his teeth, your question slicing through his pleasure, not enough to get him to fuck up his rhythm. “Where– wherever you want– want me to, mommy.”

You gasp, and he opens his eyes to see your brows furrowed in pleasure, eyes dark and focused. His cock twitches at the sight of your swollen, kiss-plump lips, parted, glossy with spit. Pressure builds in his gut, knowing what the title does to you, that it tumbled off his tongue. 

“Cum,” you demand, the word coated in arousal. “Cum for me, wanna see you make a mess.”

He grunts, gasping out a desperate, muddled moan, but it takes no more than three more humps of his cock on your hand to spill hot, sticky release into his briefs. He hisses at the feeling, uncomfortable, messy, humiliating. When his hips slow to a stop, you don’t move your hand, you don’t lessen up the pressure. Your fingers wrap around his cock over his shorts instead, and Yeosang curses so loudly he prays the entire complex can’t hear him.

“Shut up.”

He shudders, backing into the counter impossibly further, lowered down to his elbows, knees trembling. Whines, whimpers and moans spill from his lips, bucking away from you, jerking rapidly under the weight of your hand. “I can’t take it,” he shakes his head, sucking air down to the base of his diaphragm. “I can’t– I can’t–”

“You can,” you move closer, caging him in. Eyes locked on his hips, how he shakes beneath you, he can see the grin on your lips from above you, the curve of your cheeks. “Wanna see how much.”

“No,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut, his body in fight or flight. The overstimulation burns to the point of ache, his mind going fuzzy, all you do is laugh. “Please– please.”

“One more,” your eyes glance upward, round and doe-like as if you weren’t pushing him past the breaking point. You still haven’t even taken off his shorts. “Can you do that for me?”

There’s a demon inside him that loves to obey you. That gets off on doing what you ask of him. It erases his refractory period like it didn’t exist at all.

“Y-yes,” he whimpers, tongue lolling out of his mouth, swiping over his bottom lip. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes–yes mo–mommy.”

“Kiss me, baby,” your voice is so soft he blinks to make sure he heard it right. “Come here.”

Lifting himself up, your wrist twists over his shorts, palm rolling over his tip and it’s just enough pleasure to get him building again. He pants into your mouth, the kiss not much of a kiss at all, exchanging breath and spit, teeth clashing together. Yeosang’s babbling into your mouth, begging for something he isn’t sure of, reprieve, maybe. But he’s close and you taste so sweet and your hand feels so fucking good and it’s not even touching his skin. 

Your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging at his roots, with a sharp hiss from his lips and a stuttered, staggered grunt, he’s spilling into his shorts all over again. You coax him through it, praises, compliments, sweet words he only got to hear when he was obeying you, it makes his brain all fuzzy, makes his abdomen twitch and his cock jump like he had more to give. He knew in his soul that he didn’t.

You kiss the corner of his lips, his chin, his jaw, then pepper short, soft presses of your lips down his neck. “You’re so good,” you whisper into his sweaty skin, “always so good for me. So proud of you.”

His chest is still heaving, eyes barely closed, but your praise gives him clarity. “Need to clean up.”

“Wanna see,” you whisper, soft, delicate hands traveling down his abdomen, over his tee. “Let me see.”

Your fingers dip into the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down. He can feel the heat of shame, his head tipping backward, eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t want to see the mess he’d made.

He hears you gasp, the trickle of awe falling past your lips. Maybe he does want to see what you see. “You’re so perfect,” you whisper, and he looks down at his light gray briefs, the shattered splotch of wetness darkening them into charcoal. Marvelling at the sight, you mumble, “Look at you.”

“Stop,” he whines, hips twitching, “‘s embarrassing.”

“It’s hot,” you counter, fingers tugging at the waistband of his shorts, pulling them over where his soft length hangs heavy. “So messy, you’d do anything for me if I asked.”

His cheeks burn. He doesn’t answer, tucking his lips between his teeth, eyes finding the ceiling once more. “C’mon.” His briefs snap against his hips again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Confused, he fixes his gaze on you again. “Wha–? Do you–”

“Bathroom,” you hum, already turning. “Come on, messy boy.”

He follows, like a moth to a flame, a dog to his owner. You clean him, though, a warm towel to his pelvis, his wet clothes thrown in his hamper. In silence, the hum of the bathroom fan sound enough, he watches you move, the fluidity of your movements, brows crooked in focus, with care. You care about him.

You walked through his apartment like you were angry at god himself and somehow, he diffused it. His head tilts, sitting on his bed, watching you sort through his drawers for new clothes as if he were incapable of doing it himself. Thinking out loud, he says, “You really should talk to your coach.”

Your head snaps to the side, black briefs in your hand. Your face reads calm, but your answer is short, “I know.”

“If they’ve been torturing you this long, they’re not going to stop.”

You sigh, and he knows you’re trying to find your favorite pair of his shorts. Gray, soft, long, they reach below his knees. Finding them, you close his bottom drawer and turn, crossing his bedroom to hand the fabric to him. “What kind of captain does that make me? That I can’t handle two girls.”

He stands, “It’s not that you can’t handle them, you shouldn’t have to.”

You watch him tug his briefs over his hips, his shorts. “The other girls, my girls, I don’t want them to think I’m some kind of dictator. That if you don’t like me, you’re out.”

Yeosang grins, “That sounds like a very you attitude to have.”

You roll your eyes, sitting on his bed, then deflate as your back stretches over his duvet. He can see the hint of a smile tugging on your lips as you argue, “Not when it comes to them. I don’t want them to hate me, or hate cheer because of me. They felt that way with Jihyo, I felt that way with Jihyo, and she chose me. I wanna be different.”

Yeosang lays down on his bed beside you, flat on his back, lungs emptying as he stares at his ceiling. “You’re different from her, you’re strict, but you’re not unfair. Just because you don’t condone bullying doesn’t mean you’re a dictator.”

He can feel your eyes on him, so he turns his head, meeting your stare. “What would you do? If you were me.”

“I’d give it right back,” he answers, without a second of thought. “You’re not the kind of person who backs down. Remind them who you are.”

You stare at him for a second, unanswering. Then your head turns, eyes finding the ceiling, and Yeosang mimics you, staring at the beige wall above him. 

Minutes might have gone by, maybe hours.

You finally turn to him, “I’m hungry.”

His brows lift. “It’s late.”

“I think we both know by now that your bed’s big enough for two.”

The pep rally was rough. 

In the locker room, chatter filled the air, high-pitched giggles, yells, conversation swarmed the hallways, bouncing off the metal lockers, directly into your fucking ears. 

The Birds put on a beautiful show, which you assumed they would, probably the outcome of a pep-talk by the one and only Song Mingi. The team revered him as if he were a god or something, desperate to impress him, like if Mingi said the word, they’d be drafted to the NFL alongside him. It helped you out, though, it left the crowd distracted, focused on them, a thrum of adrenaline passing through the stadium as you ran onto the turf with your girls.

You don’t think the crowd even looked at you or the team once when you were in the middle of the field, fucking up each step of your goddamn choreography. 

Your friends weren’t there, there wasn’t a familiar face to look at, to keep your focus on. Not that it specifically bothered you, there were plenty of away games you cheered at where you had to stare at random faces, maybe an older man’s bald head, and used it as a beacon. Somewhere to look. Something to keep your eyes on while you performed outside of your own fucking body.

But the team still didn’t have the routine down, and the last-minute tweaks you made to make the routine easier, to dumb it down, failed. The team couldn’t keep their heads on straight, Karina couldn’t remember what you had just taught her two days ago, and had been rehearsing since. It was frustrating, to know that you failed, to accept that all that you had done still wasn’t good enough. You shuddered thinking about getting a call from your coach later. 

Enduring all of it, feeling all of it, you knew in the pit of your gut there was something else. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong. A sense of dread was consuming you head-to-toe, like something was off, something was missing. You couldn’t put your finger on it. 

Maybe it was just a rough week; you’re sure the girls hated you right now, with how hard you pushed them all week, they must feel relieved to know the pep rally’s over. Even if you have to start preparing for competition tomorrow. 

You caught Jaemin’s eye on your way to the locker room, just a glimpse over the kelly green pom-pom in your hand that held the door open for the rest of the girls. He winked at you, smiled with every single one of those beautiful, white teeth, and you felt nothing. Nothing. 

You never have felt anything for Jaemin, if you were being honest with yourself. If you were being really honest, if you came to terms with what you felt, you’d remind yourself that every time you catch Jaemin’s eye on the field, after practice, all the times he’s sauntered up to you when you were cleaning up on the turf, flirting with you shamelessly… you remembered when it was Yeosang. You wished it was Yeosang.

Your stomach aches. Twists, churns, like cramps on the second day of your period. You slammed your locker shut a little harder than you meant to, jaw settled in frustration, palms sweating. 

“You good?” Karina asks, black hair still tied at the crown of her head, curled and framing her face, laying on her shoulders. The massive, bright green bow glimmered, lined with gold and white, bringing out the red in her cheeks. 

You grimace. Feigned concern, Karina doesn’t give a fuck if you’re okay, she doesn’t care about anyone except herself. 

“Fine,” you respond, a short, curt reply. It meant don't push it. 

Karina huffs a laugh as Giselle comes up to her side, the brunette twin smirking as if she could read Karina’s mind. You think maybe they could read each other’s minds— where one goes, the other follows. Your eyes bounce between the two with growing confusion, your upper body jerks as if to ask what. 

“Nice hickey,” Giselle giggles. “Jaemin?”

Your hand comes up to clasp around your neck, the spot where Giselle’s eyes were locked. You didn’t even know it was there, you don’t know how you didn’t notice when you were putting your makeup on. 

“No,” Karina makes drama of the word, dragging it out, head tilting to the side, body leaning into Giselle’s. The two had dressed already, back to denim shorts and microscopic tank tops, flip flops on their feet. “She’s not fucking Jaemin anymore. Right, Captain?” 

Your cheeks flush, an embarrassed heat flooding you. Maybe the reminder of Yeosang is what you needed to fake a laugh, one icy, mean. “And since when are you two so interested in who’s inside me? Are you waiting for your turn?”

Giselle nearly gags. Karina huffs, “That’s disgusting, why would you even say that?”

You shrug, a nasty smirk tugging at your lips. “Seemed like where it was headed. If you asked nicely, I might have said yes.”

“I wanted to know because I fucked Jaemin,” Karina stands a little straighter, arms crossing over her chest. “He said you haven’t called him in weeks. Ghosted him. Guess it’s ’cause you’re gay now?” 

You grab your duffel bag from the bench, a rectangular, heavy bag beaming hues of green and gold through the locker room like a kaleidoscope. “Were you talking about me before, or after you fucked him? Or was I on your mind during all three strokes?”

Karina’s cheeks redden, face morphing into something horrified. Her eyes dance, searching for something to argue with before she flat out asks, “I— you— are you still fucking Yeosang?”

You hate the way his name sounds on her tongue. Your hand grips your bag strap tighter, knuckles changing color with strength. “No,” you hiss.

“We know you are,” Giselle crosses her arms, like Karina’s mini. “Are you going to his show on Friday? To watch your little garage-band boyfriend?”

Your jaw clenches, ears moving with the grit of your teeth. Karina laughs, head tipping back, “It’s a shame, you know. He had a bright future, but now he’s a loser. Do you think he quit football to get away from you? Just for you to follow him like a lost puppy dog?” 

“I wonder if he’s thinking ‘damn, I can’t get rid of her’,” Giselle sighs, a finger poking her cheek like she’s mid-thought. “Or maybe he’s so fucking high from all the weed he smokes he just doesn’t care who he’s fucking.”

“You don’t get to talk about him,” you hiss, stepping forward, dropping your duffel to the floor in a harsh smack. “Keep his name out of your filthy fuckin’ mouth.”

“Or what?” Karina steps closer, meeting your broadened shoulders, her chin jutted upward. “Go ahead, do something. I’ll be made captain so fucking quick it’ll make your head spin.” 

You laugh, and it’s vile. Low, coated in malice, it takes everything in you not to spit on her. Tipping your chin up, looking down at her over your nose, you say, “You wish you had someone like Yeosang. The only guys you can get to fuck you are the ones so fucking drunk they can’t see you.”

You snap your head to Giselle, “I’ll be at his show, proudly watching my garage-band boyfriend while you keep plowing through the lacrosse team, praying one of them will actually text you back this time.”

You bend down, grabbing your duffel bag from the floor. “I’m captain because I deserve to be, I worked my ass off for that title. What have you accomplished, other than living in my shadow?”

Karina counters, “Those girls watch me, not you.”

“I wouldn’t be able to look away from a trainwreck, either,” you bark back, teeth bared. “I’ll make sure to keep you in the back from now on.”

Karina gasps, eyes blowing wide like that was a death sentence. “No.”

“I’m the captain,” you respond, leaning forward, making her shrink where she stands. “You’ll be lucky if Coach doesn’t kick you off the goddamn team after I call her.”

Steam is radiating off you as you barrel out of the locker room. Chest heaving, jaw locked, fingers shaking around the strap of your duffel bag, your mind is roaring as you nearly sprint down the hallways dripping in gray. Flickers of green and white beckoned for your sight, posters, banners, streamers, you couldn’t see until you were out of the stadium. And then began your trek to him.

He wasn’t home, though. His apartment door locked. You knocked, you banged, you called his name. No answer. You thought about calling him, your phone buried somewhere in your duffle, when you looked down you realized you never even changed. Still in uniform, a green and white tank, Birds printed diagonally across your middle, your matching mini-skirt reaching just mid-thigh.

You needed him, you needed him, not to blow off steam, not to touch him and feel like you had a semblance of control over something. You needed him to tell you again, that you’re strong, you don’t back down, that you’re worthy of your title and you aren’t just like Jihyo. You wanted to hear him say that he was proud of you for sticking up for yourself, that you’re right, only his reassurance could ease the raging war in your chest. 

You needed him. You’ve never needed anyone in your fucking life.

“Hey,” you hear from behind you, a voice so comforting and warm your body twists.

Your eyes widen, taking in his outfit. Green tee, oversized, white long-sleeve covering his arms. Denim on his legs, boots poking out, hair styled over his forehead, silver gleaming in his ears. You’re slapped with the memory of waking up beside him, the both of you naked, bodies molding together like you’d both been dreaming of it.

You blink, “Where were you?”

His cheeks go pink. Sheepishly, he admits, “The pep rally.”

It steals the air from your lungs, relief flooding you, rendering your body hot. “You came?”

“You were stressed about it,” he shrugs. “I skipped band practice for it. You were right, that bitch was smug, she knew exactly what she was doing–”

You drop the duffel bag, throw your arms over his shoulders, and steal his lips. He smiles into the kiss, holding you tight, laughing a little at your enthusiasm. “Why?” 

“You came,” you’re smiling, pressing your forehead against his. “I didn’t think you were there, I didn’t even think to ask you to come, Yeosang.”

“I thought you would’ve spotted me,” he’s laughing, his smile silly and happy. “Green hair and all.”

Your hands find his hair, soft between your fingers, “So much team spirit.”

He kisses you again. “You caught me, I dyed it so everyone would know I was there for you.”

You laugh, head tipping back, arms tight around his shoulders. Words thrum under your skin, floating through your limbs, climbing to the tip of your tongue. Your smile falls. Swallowing all three of them down, you admit, “I fought with Karina in the locker room. I think I won.”

“Like, fist-fight?”

“Strongly-worded verbal argument.”

“That’s your forte,” he makes a face like that was obvious. “No shit, you won.”

Your smile returns tenfold. “Can we go in?”

“Does that mean you’re going to change out of your uniform?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, no.”

You feel like you’re living outside of your own body.

You aren’t a dive-bar girl, you were lucky you had your ID in your purse, you didn’t even think about needing to show it to the tall, bulky brunette guy standing outside the front door. He let you in, and you mentally thanked god he got you away from the guy smoking the disgusting cigarette out front that nearly choked you. Who even smokes anymore?

Reality hits you, and you remember you're at a bar. Not a nice one, either. Neon signs hang from the walls, license plates and dollar bills scribbled on with black marker stapled to the deep brown oak lining the roof over the bar, music played through the speakers, rock music, heavy music, you fought not to cringe. The smell– the smell, tobacco and beer and sweat, there were college kids fucking everywhere.

All people your own age, but fuck, each and every single one you laid eyes on, you gave a stare of disgust. You didn’t understand the point of coming here on weekends, drinking until you blacked out, kissing randoms in the corner, the idea of you doing it had you gagging. The bar was packed, brown leather stools topped with people in denim, a guy with a shaved head behind the bar juggling bottles.

You felt scarily out of place. You think you might turn around and leave.

You had too much to make up for. Too much to prove. Too much to fix. 

Conventional relationships weren’t for you. Your taste was different– what got you off, what you searched for in a partner, wasn’t something you could find in just anyone. When you met Yeosang and realized you could be yourself, that you were free, you dug your nails in and refused to let go.

When he quit football and ripped your world from under your feet, you hated him. You hated him for a long while. You were embarrassed that you felt so deeply for someone who was comfortable with climbing down the social ladder instead of up. You felt shameful that you were so attached to someone who didn’t mind upending his entire life, without even considering you or how you felt about it.

You can remember the night he told you he was quitting football, how you screamed at him, you can still count how many times you said no. You’ll regret that night for the rest of your life, because how free you felt with Yeosang, how everything fell into place, how comfortable you’d become being yourself, is what he became after he quit. When he committed himself to his passion.

He was comfortable changing his entire life because he felt safe enough to be happy. He assumed he had your support, that you’d be by his side through it all, and you let him down. You left him. And for what? What the fuck did you leave him for? What shame did you think you’d carry, if your boyfriend was no longer on the football team?

You ordered a drink from the bald guy and ignored his face when Aperol Spritz left your lips. Yeosang showed up for you, after he asked you to show up for him, and you basically said fuck no to his face. Were you really so ignorant that you couldn’t see yourself cracking each and every layer of his confidence? Were you so shallow that the only thing that’s real to you, is how other people see you? Did that make it reality?

It’s pathetic. He’d give you the world if you asked him to, and you’ve never done anything for him. You’ve never given him any reason to be kind to you, any reason to love you. And yet he still trusts you with every ounce of himself, trust you’ve never, not once, deserved.

You’re simmering in rage, self-loathing as you take the seat of a high top table in the back corner. Bare legs crossed, one knee over the other, the toe of your heel sits on the bar of the chair, your mini-skirt covering only what it needs to. You feel eyes on you, on your low-cut top, and the part of you that still clings to being perceived, wonders if they’re judging the streak of green you clipped into your hair. The one that matches Yeosang’s shade exactly. 

You keep the skinny black straw attached to your lip, the orange liquid in the tall glass bitter. Your eyes find the stage, still dark, the head peeking out of the side. Olive skin, dark eyes, ebony hair spiked atop his head, you think that’s Jay. You’ve never met him, only heard about him from Yeosang, but from the description you remember receiving, it matches him. Your back straightens when you realize his eyes land on you, the two of you wide-eyed, staring at each other. You couldn’t be sure, the stage on the opposite side of the bar, but how his body seemed to freeze, you think he might know you, too.

You poke at your phone that laid dark on the table-top. They were supposed to go on any second now. Your leg starts bouncing, lips sucking on your straw, guzzling down liquid. Impatient, nervous. You scan the bar, muscleheads, girls half-dressed, people dressed in all black, silver sparkling on their wrists and necks.

You spot Mingi at the bar, and for a second you feel relief seeing a familiar face. His eyebrows are tied together, mouth moving, hands splaying with every word like he’s mad. Then you spot Aven beside him, chin jutted upward, shoulders back like she could will herself into being taller than him. Your brow pops in curiosity.

Eyes sliding to the corner, you spot Karina, Giselle, standing with another girl that looks semi-familiar. Then you notice cigarette-guy at her back, arms wrapped around her, and you cringe as you remember the smell of tobacco. Says a lot about your two teammates, if that’s the company they keep.

It feels like fucking forever until the music shuts off, the lights go dim, and the stagelights burn warmth. Jay walks out first, you think the brunette is Jisung, the small blonde boy Jongseob. Yeosang’s last, and your glass nearly falls from your fingers.

He’s in leather. Black, on his legs, hugging each and every muscle in his thighs. On his bicep, a band, leather and tight, it squeezes him ever so slightly, his bicep bulging out above and below it. On his left hand, a loop around his pointer finger, covering the stretch of skin on the outside of his palm.

The tank on his upper half is cotton, you think, low-cut, showing off his pectorals, the hint of purple from the hickey you’d left days ago still bruising his skin. His hair is messy, freshly dyed, bright and neon and attention-stealing. His smile is wide and sure, his grip on his bass firm, you’ve never seen him look so confident. So assured.

His eyes scan the crowd, the people who flocked to the stage. Jay’s speaking, you can’t hear him, it was as if there was a tunnel between yourself and Yeosang, the two of you on opposite sides, all you could see was him, all you could hear was him.

And like he really was on the opposite end, his eyes landed on you. They stay there, widening ever so slightly in surprise, maybe happiness? You hope it’s happiness. You can feel your heartbeat pick up, heat on your cheeks like you were the one beneath the spotlight, you wondered if you made a mistake in coming here.

Jay strikes a chord, and Yeosang’s muscles flex as his fingers find the strings of his bass. For too long, his eyes stay on you, like he couldn’t believe that you were really there, as if he’d made it up. You throw him a little wave, a small smile, and he beams.

The first song was original, you recognized it, something punk, loud and rhythmic. Your head nods, your foot bouncing against the bar on the chair in tune with Jongseob beating on the drums. Halfway into it you know they’re talented, better than good, and you curse yourself for never asking Yeosang to play for you. For never caring about this side of him, never showing interest, never wanting to know. 

It’s not until the third song that your cloud of self-loathing dissipates, because you recognize it. Last week, he sat on his couch, bass in his lap while you played it from your phone. Just days ago, you performed with this song as the fucking track. 

You stand from the chair, his eyes find yours. Smirking, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. Then you’re fighting through the crowd, kitten heels stepping in puddles of liquid, arms pushing people out of your way like they were nothing but obstacles. You were sure people cursed at you, yelled at you, you didn’t hear them, not when you were feet away from the man you love and he was playing a fucking song for you.

Bodies jumped at the front, arms swinging, people singing along. You stood there, eyes wide, trying to catch your breath, hand over your pounding heart in your chest. He’s beautiful. Sweat kisses his skin, his pink-splotched chest, hair already wet and sticking to his face. You’ve never seen him look this way before, confident, more than confident, arrogant, even– fingers plucking at the strings like he could play it with his eyes closed.

You love him. You love him. 

Overcome with emotion, adrenaline pounding through you like Jongseob’s sticks hitting the drums, you let go. Jumping, singing along, your arm swings over your head, the sound of your heels hitting the floor completely drowned out. You keep your eyes on him, completely and utterly ecstatic, and Yeosang smiles back, refusing to take his stare away from you like he didn’t want to look away, either.

You love him, you love him, you fucking love him. 

You loved the structure of your relationship before he quit football. You loved him in uniform, in cleats, a football in his hand– but was this that much different? Was this not better, doused in black and leather, his fingers creating instead of catching? Did the rush you felt when you kissed him on the field even compare to the rumbling in your chest right now? Why the fuck did it take you so long to give it a goddamn chance?

For the rest of his show, you stayed up front, and to your surprise and his, you knew some of the songs. Old music your dad used to play when you were growing up, but that kind of nostalgia sticks with you, glued to your spine. Much like your eyes stayed glued to him, swaying back and forth, jumping out of your skirt when Jay and Jisung started shredding. What the hell have you been so afraid of?

After they bow and leave the stage, you’re moving with them, pushing through bodies to the left of you to try and get yourself where Jay had poked his head out earlier. You weren’t thinking, you didn’t even consider if you were allowed backstage as you pushed yourself forward, forward, forward.

You needed to see him, needed to touch him, you needed him. You needed to tell him you fucking love him, that you’re proud of him, that nothing makes you happier than seeing him happy.

He meets you at the curtain. Dark eyes dilated, body doused in sweat, clothes sticking to him, you didn’t care. He pulls you behind it and you don’t say a word before you throw your arms around his neck and crash your lips onto his. 

He holds you steady, one foot stepping backward to keep you both upright, he’s laughing into the kiss, giggling like he still didn’t quite believe you were here. Pulling away, your hands fly to his hair, “I’m so proud of you.”

“You came,” he says, voice breathy, he still hadn’t caught it. “You’re here.”

“You’re insane.” You laugh, pushing the stray hairs off his face, your feet not even touching the ground. “You’re fucking insane, Yeosang, I didn’t know– I didn’t know you were so good.”

“Damn, what about us?” 

Your smile drops, eyes blowing wide as you lift your head up. Jisung stands with a brow popped, Jay’s face flat, Jongseob’s face blown into full surprise, hands half-gripping his drumsticks like even he couldn’t believe you were here. It was a sorry excuse for a backstage, or a green room, you weren’t sure. You were at a dinky dive bar.

Yeosang slowly lowers you back down to the ground as you swallow, “Sorry. Hi guys.”

Jay’s lips stay flat, he waves, just a movement of his fingers. Jongseob blinks. Jisung grins, “Hiii.”

“That was incredible,” you force a smile, it’s nervous. “You’re all so talented.”

“We put him back together,” Jay says, tone flat. Yeosang jumps, trying to interject, but Jay cuts him off, “We were there when you destroyed him. Do you even know what he went through?”

You swallow, cheeks flaming. You shake your head.

“Jay,” Yeosang warns, his voice tight. You’ve never heard it before, but you barely notice, you can’t when Jay’s eyes thin further.

“Don’t force us to do that shit again,” Jay barks. “It took too long, and we’re too busy.” You loose a breath at the amusement playing in his tone. “And we better see you at our show next week.”

Nodding, you immediately agree, “I won’t, I’ll be there. I promise.”

Jisung’s hands find Jay’s shoulders, nudging him forward, “Come on, father Jay, Jesus Christ. Let’s give them some space.”

Jongseob follows the pair, eyes still wide and sparkling, head never once turning away from you as all three of them walk through the curtain. You release the rest of the breath you didn’t know you were holding as you turn back to Yeosang, “Did he mean that?”

Yeosang starts to shake his head, mumbling reassurance, hands searching for your waist, but you stop him. “Sangie,” you urge him, “did he mean what he said? Did I hurt you?”

“Can I say something without freaking you out?” Yeosang asks, and your hands find his shoulders as you nod. “I was, like, balls-deep in love with you. When you ghosted me, I went off the deep end a little.”

Your bottom lip curves, pain slicing through you. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“That’s in the past,” he shakes his head. “Long time ago.”

“Not long enough,” you whisper. “I’ll regret hurting you forever, Yeosang. I’ll never do that to you again.”

His eyes dance across your features, reading in-between the lines. He doesn’t respond.

“Do you still love me?” you ask, and fear curls in your gut. 

His lips perk upward, “You know I do.”

A smile dares to swallow your face. “Is it okay that I love you, too?”

He answers with his lips on yours, both of his hands on your back, kissing you so hard it dips your body backward. You squeal into his mouth, arms flying around his neck, holding him tight as he lifts your feet off the ground.

“You showed up for me,” he says into your mouth, before kissing you again. “You cheered for me. That’s all I could have ever wanted, ever asked for.”

“Start thinking of new gifts,” you say as you land back on your feet. “There’s a lot I need to make up for.”

He presses his forehead to yours, fingers squeezing at your hips. “The fact that you love me is enough.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands, heels lifting off the floor to press another kiss to his lips. “You make me a better person, Yeosang. You let me be me. I want to be that person for you, too.”

“You are–”

“No, I’m not,” you shake your head, your smile weak. “But I will be, if you let me.”

He kisses you again, and it’s answer enough. He pushes you backward by your hips, five steps before your back gently hits a wall, arms closing around his neck. You throw one of your legs over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Say it again,” he says into your mouth, pushing his hips into yours. 

“I love you.”

He moans, quiet, but telling. “Again.”

You roll your hips against him, “I love you, Yeosang.”

His palm finds your thigh, gripping tight as his other hand tilts your jaw upward, kissing you deeper, harder. Your hands search his abdomen, his chest, sliding up to cup his cheeks, using the smallest bit of force to pry his lips off yours. 

“You’re not fucking me here,” you breathe out, taking in his dilated pupils, his red cheeks. “This place is disgusting.”

He snorts, head dipping forward, “You’re gonna have to get over that, what if I go on tour one day and wanna have a quickie backstage?”

A full-body shiver racks through you, and it only makes him laugh harder. He kisses you once more, then peels himself off you. “I love you, too, even the high-maintenance.”

“You don’t even know half of it,” you bring your leg back into yourself, both feet finding the floor, fixing your skirt. “How high-maintenance I actually am.”

“I assume I’ll be learning.”

“Yes, you will.”

dear diary, i still question why in the hell was i transferred from football to soccer? i loveeeed working with the linebackers.

they were such a bubbly group (besides their neediness) i was pulled aside like i did something wrong, the staff knew i needed these credits for grad school. but nobody explained the real reason why i was switched, and that’s what pissed me off the most.

at the time, i thought it was a punishment. remember thinking i did something wrong. offend someone? but here’s the thing…after my frontal lobe development and all, i should be grateful for it. right? i didn’t understand a damn thing back then but i truly get it now.

i became reckless, breaking rules like it was in my nature, grades falling fast. someone i couldn’t recognize. i lied, abandoned things, things i swore i’d never do. REARRANGED MY WHOLE FUCKING LIFE.

the person i became after that transfer shaped my whole college experience and it still lingers with me from time to time. & i think that’s why im writing this all down, really trying to piece together how all this shit happened.

i was young and naive, but young me didn’t deserve that. but i let it happen anyway. over and over again. so time to lock in. im drunk asf ngl, my tears are about to ruin my notebook paper but who the fuck cares.

thank you to kq university athletic department for changing the trajectory of my entire life.

—

It was a Friday when you started your work study job. August, the start of football fall camp, the hottest time of year.

You were afraid, nervous, excited, all the feelings flooding, you could barely sleep the night before. The job orientation did nothing to calm you down.Your bosses’ motto was always “keep your head on a swivel.” You wanted to throw up on the conference room table right then and there.

There was no formal training, you were thrown to the wolves. You were put under an intern for guidance, she assigned you to the linebacker group, so you were always near her for any questioning. You were already on edge because the shirt given to you for the day was so ill-fitting, you were in front of over 130 people, and your boyfriend is celebrating his birthday today, hundreds of miles away from you.

The energy of football was so intense from the training room all the way outside to the field. You could smell the fresh paint on the grass, constant whistles from different directions, the excitement players felt getting ready for the season.

You watched as your group, the linebackers, warmed up. They were intimidating to say the least, you always had to be attentive to them.They drank water like camels, running across the field for bottle fill-ups was the majority of your practice.

Coming into freshman year, you chose biology as your major. A good entry for going into grad school for athletic training, this work study experience was important. Everyone knows this would look good on your resume after graduation, it would be dumb to jeopardize that in any way.

You keep up while internally crying inside. You learn jersey numbers, names, and you try to understand the full dynamic of your small group.They also try to learn you. You are the person who is their main point of contact if something goes wrong after all.

But there’s one linebacker that sticks out amongst the seven of them, one that makes being surrounded by men a little less overwhelming. He approaches you on the sideline, about two weeks into fall camp. You're not expecting attention, you've trained yourself to move through the space without taking up room, keeping your eyes on the water rack, on the next player who might need you. 

You position yourself at the edge of things, always ready to step back. Your whole purpose is to be efficient and invisible, and you've gotten good at it, shoulders slightly hunched, voice smaller when you speak, always the first to move out of the way when someone needs space.He smiles, it's big, genuine, you think. "Ready for the term to start?" He takes a bottle from your rack, squeezes some in his mouth, then on his cleats.

I hate when they do that. I literally have to go refill now.

"Uh, yeah, first year. Little nervous."

"Don't be, I've got you if you need anything." His dimples show, you take a peek at the back of his jersey, number ten.

You mentally run through your list. His last name is Choi. You can't remember which Choi, though. You nod as a thanks. It was odd because throughout the rest of practice, he would find every excuse to talk to you when players were supposed to be focused. Every practice, he became a regular presence, you eventually figured out which Choi he was, San.

You can tell he amped up his flirting, you were fresh meat to fall camp eyes. He started to compliment your clothes. Your work uniform was school shirts and shorts, with some beat-up sneakers. So impressive, really your best fit.

You look a mess most of the time due to working in the heat all day. Hair plastered to your face, pit stains, shirt sticking to you.Despite all of this, practice became something you were looking forward to in the mornings. Looking forward to seeing San.

Were my boyfriend's worries valid? I haven't brought him up once since I've been here. He's going through his own fall camp, nah, he's fine.

The fall term was going to officially start soon, which meant the first game was coming up. The energy became even more real as the date got closer.Your stress also skyrocketed, Mingi claimed his first game would be a week after your school's, so he was going to fly into town to watch you work since he had the free time.

Seeing him throughout the semester would be scarce, as he went to a different school and had a hectic student-athlete schedule.You were so scared for the week leading up to gameday. Mingi sat in the row closest to the sideline. He had a perfect view of you and the inner workings of you and the other staff.

You spotted him before he spotted you, and you knew he was coming, but it still made your stomach drop.Your shoulders tense the moment you see him in the stands. You force yourself to keep moving, keep working, but your body knows he's watching. You catch San's eye across the field and something in your chest tightens. He's watching you watch Mingi. 

You are behind your group for their pregame warm-ups, as you do a quick turnaround to wave up to Mingi, San approaches you for water.San immediately clocks it. He doesn't say anything in passing, just drinks, drops it back into your rack, and runs off to join the others.

I think forgetting I have a boyfriend is about to backfire on me.

The game finally commences, you stand for three hours, running up and down the sideline. Little glances up to Mingi now and again.Working your first game, you feel such a rush, you don't try to decipher any emotions from Mingi or San, if you don't pay attention, you will get plowed down.

San makes a really good play, and you realize you clap a little too hard. Immediately make yourself busy, know that’s how rumors start, and it’s only your first year.

KQ takes the win, everyone in the stands comes to the field to congratulate their loved ones, and more. This also included Mingi coming down to greet you. He grabs a hold of your waist to spin you around. He has bulked up since last seeing him, football body and all. Dyed his hair too, dark blue, not sure of the sudden change.

You smile up at him, move some of the hair out of his face. The dork you’ve been with since junior year of high school, your rock, your bestie.

I hate breaking your heart.

“Baby, you worked your ass off. Wasn’t even paying attention to the game.” You laugh, the one that makes his smile go even wider. “I’m glad you came to see me in action.”

“Me too, wish you were my trainer. Your group is lucky to have you.”

You tap his arm playfully, you know it’s a loaded sentence, you don’t know if that weight holds the same for him.“Before I catch my flight tomorrow, wanna grab some food? Sleep in a hotel bed instead of a dorm for the night?”

“Yea–yes. I’d like that.” You’re hesitant, the air has shifted, the smell of gatorade powder is filling your nose, but the man in front of you is taking up your line of sight.

That night was filled with giggles, memories, moans, and everything that you wouldn’t get to experience with him until the fall semester was over.

The fall semester was hard but rewarding, you’d love your job and the people you worked with. But your grades and your relationship were tanking in front of your eyes. He is out of state, and I’m here.

You’d been doing the long distance, but it only got harder as time progressed between you. When he calls, you don’t have much to say. You’d try to tell him about work, about school, your day, but it all felt so small compared to what he was dealing with. I didn’t realize it yet, but I was already checked out.

Finals were a bitch to go through. You were so ready for winter break, just needed a moment to decompress. But you were still confused about the status of your relationship. Winter break went by fast, you went through the motions of catching up on sleep. Mingi wasn’t able to come visit you until spring break.

You almost don’t recognize him. He exudes a completely different energy when he shows up at your single dorm with flowers and that smile that holds the world.

You're in pjs and slippers, awakened from your nap after taking a study break. You’re close to being on academic probation, and you’re trying to be better.

You don’t even get a word out before he starts apologizing. “I’m sorry. Just fucking sorry for putting you on the back burner. You’re a priority, football shouldn’t have changed that.” Everything feels empty. His words feel empty. I feel empty.

Fall semester was months of you growing without him. Something in you has shifted. You don’t know if it’s for the best or the worst. But when he leans down to kiss your unchapped lips, crust still in your eyes…you don’t feel a thing.

It feels like saying honey I’m home! When it’s only your name on the lease.

You kiss him back, because you’re trying. Really trying to understand the mess of feelings you found yourself in. You love Mingi, that was never the issue. He was easy to love, to fall into. You spend the whole break together. Favorite movies, home-cooked meals that give you food poisoning, his hands on every part of your body.

Making up for the months that you’ve both missed together, but the disconnect is still there. The elephant in the room that no one is acknowledging.

You’re having surface-level conversations, the yearning in his eyes is gone.Your eyes match his. You don’t know if he can tell because he still proceeds to talk about the future, but it’s his future.

You’re both still young-minded, ambitious, navigating life despite him being by your side and being your first for everything. When Mingi talks about his plans, where he wants to go, you realize you have no idea what your place is.

You ask questions, be attentive, trying to grasp at straws that are inevitably going to bend.What are we really building toward? You want to be excited about him, like you were in high school, you want the puppy love that used to gush out of you like a river.

But all you can think about is being back on the field with players, the energy, the people. Finding yourself outside of Mingi. The whole week, you’re running on fumes.

On his last night before flying back out, he pulls you close in your car. It’s quiet, no one else around.The only thing accompanying you is the birds, who don’t notice that the sun hasn’t risen yet. It’s starting to feel like nails on a chalkboard instead of a melody.

“I miss you,” Mingi whispers, as if you’re not right beside him. Like he’s telling a ghost. And shit, maybe I am one.

He leans in to kiss you, and you freeze. Your body doesn’t reciprocate, your hands don’t go to the nape of his neck, your eyes stay open, you don’t give him entrance. His lips feel wrong, not bad. Just wrong, and he knows it.

His cap hides some of his features, but you can see the realization and hurt etched all over his face. He pulls back, puts his hands back in his lap, faces the windshield instead of you.

“What’s wrong?”

You’re trying not to let the water works show as you explain—or try to explain. Hell, you don’t even know what to explain. It sounds like patheticness coming out of your mouth, you feel like a bitch. You fidget with your fingers, mess with the seatbelt, drink out of a 3-day-old water bottle you find in the door.

Everything but looking him in the eye. “I don’t—don’t know. I just. I can’t.”

He sighs, doesn’t push for further explanation, you see his neck and ears getting red, the outside lamp light shining on the side of him.

You can tell he’s getting emotional, he’s about to cry, and you hate it. You hate it. I fucking hate it.

You’re the reason he’s crying, you’re breaking him, but you’re breaking yourself while trying to stay. He leaves on that note, doesn’t say a thing else. When he leaves, you feel relief more than sadness.

Being back at school, with him away, everything turns upside down. You stop waiting for his calls, you stop checking if he’s texted. You make yourself busier than you already are. Chem labs are kicking your ass, your grades have become your main priority. Your work study is more lax during the spring, but you spend half your days there.

Everything else feels more urgent than keeping a relationship that feels like it’s destined to fail at this point. You need to graduate, need to be okay. I need to fix myself.

You don’t break up with him yet, it’s going to hurt, you know it is. So you decide to just stop trying. You spend the rest of the spring semester fixing everything except your relationship as summer break approaches.

 Then Summer comes, and Mingi doesn’t give up, he keeps trying. He continues to call constantly, leaving long messages on your voicemail, plans about wanting to see you, how much he misses you. You go through the motions because ending things feels harder than just existing in the space you’ve created.

You agree to hang out, agree to meet up. Maybe seeing him again will fix whatever broke inside me. But when he shows up at your house, you feel dread instead of excitement. You feel the urge to perform instead of just being yourself.

He talks about how his scholarship isn’t covering his tuition, talks about transferring schools again, maybe taking a break, and coming back home. You nod, sit there, pretend to care. I should care, but I don’t. Why don’t I CARE?

You both end up at dinner, conversation fizzles out. He’s trying hard to make it feel normal, asking about any summer classes, friends, plans for the fall semester.

Your answers are all short, check your phone at the table more than you should. He reaches for your hand across the table, and you let him take it.

You're holding a stranger’s hand. This is so so fucked up.

You drive back to his place and sit in the car for a minute, engine running, ac blasting. He’s looking at you like he’s waiting on something, a kiss, a sign you still want this. You can’t give him that anymore.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say. It feels like the first honest thing you’ve said in months.

Confusion is all over, like he thought he was fixing things by going the extra mile. “What do you mean?”

You gesture between you, “This–us. I can’t keep this facade going.”

“Facade?” His voice cracks a little, you hate it when it does that. Makes you want to almost take everything you said back. “What did I do wrong?”

Fuck.

“It’s not you,” you start, you know how fucking cliche it sounds. It’s the most common breakup sentence ever created. But it’s the truth.

“I just–I don’t feel the same way anymore. I tried, really did. But I can’t get myself back to where we were.”

He’s quiet, thinks for a bit, stares at his hands that were just holding yours. “Is there someone else?”

“No.” There’s no one else, truly, just the absence of him.

“Then what changed?” His voice is strained, desperate. “I can fix it. Whatever it is, I can–”

“You can’t fix this. Fix me.” You’re trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re not the same people we were in high school. I’m not the same, and I don’t think I love you the way I’m supposed to anymore.”

I don’t love you the way you deserve.

Tears are pouring from his face, he doesn’t bother to wipe them. “I love you,” he says through sobs like it will change everything.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m so sorry.”

He opens the car door, doesn’t look at you. “I don’t understand this. I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t either.”

He gets out, slams the door harder than needed, your Ghibli ghost shakes on the rearview mirror. You sit in the car for a long time after he’s gone.

You wait for the guilt to flood, the tears, for the crushing weight of what you just did. But it doesn’t come. There’s lightness instead of grief. 

Like the feeling you got when you discovered stepping on a crack didn’t really break your mother’s back.

I broke up with my first love, and I feel okay. I feel fine.

You call your friend, you’d recently been getting close to in chem lab, Anore. “I just broke up with him.”

You tell her, trying to sound sad, trying to sound like you’re “supposed” to.

“You okay, hun?” She’s all concerned, knows by the brief rants you’d go on while trying to get your titrate perfect.

“Yeah, I think I am.” For once, you sound like you really mean it.

She offers to come over, bring ice cream, movies, all the breakup essentials. You tell her you just need good sleep.

You don’t sleep. You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation, still waiting for that regret.

Will someone ever get you as he did? But the regret never comes.

Summer goes on, you spend more time with Anore, friends from other classes. You get in the gym, read so many books, and get a better sleep schedule.

You spend the summer slowly rebuilding yourself.

I don’t miss him.

When your mom asks how Mingi is, you tell her about the breakup. She looks sad for you, asks if you’re alright. You explain that you’re fine, but you know she doesn’t believe you.

By the time August rolls back around, you’re excited about fall. Not trying to move on, not forcing yourself to be okay, you just are.

Fall camp arrives again. You’re single for the first time in years, you show up to practice without the thought of a relationship hanging over your head.

You bought new sneakers for the season, got work clothes that actually fit. The small things that feel important, like you’re starting fresh.

You don’t know it yet, but you’re about to meet someone who will make your Mingi era feel like a lifetime ago.

I’m ready, I think. Fully ready.

And when the director of sports med pulls you aside during the second week of fall camp to tell you about a transfer from football to soccer, from the linebackers to a different world, you’re shocked but take it in stride.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

They didn't sugarcoat why you're being moved.

"You're being moved," clipboard in his hand, not looking up. "Football's not working out. Coaches have flagged some concerns—you're becoming a distraction, and frankly, there's been chatter about 'optics.' We need to manage this before the issue gets bigger."

He finally looks at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach drop. "The linebacker situation didn't help," he continues, "but it's bigger than that. Staff's been noticing patterns. You're good at your job, but you're also…visible. And visibility with players is a liability we can't afford right now."

You think about all the times you caught coaches watching you, the way conversations would stop when you walked into certain rooms. You thought you were paranoid. Guess not.

A distraction…right. How about telling the players to grow the fuck up?

But then he leans back in his chair, and his tone shifts. 

"We have a responsibility to maintain professional boundaries," he says, and it sounds scripted, like he's said this before about other girls. "Soccer's a better fit. Bigger group, more structure, less…individual attention."

Less focus on you, less opportunity for you to become a problem they have to manage.

"You'll transfer effective immediately. Defenders, back line. They'll be expecting you."

Football was fun, you won’t lie. It was loud, chaotic, and easy to disappear into. But by the end of freshman year, it started to feel suffocating.

I had to constantly prove I wasn’t there just to flirt.

Soccer feels like a reset. The first day with the defenders is very…very different.

They are loud as fuck, but in a good way. The linebackers were more quiet, more in their own head most of the time. The defenders were the opposite, constantly talking, trolling each other, laughing between drills.

You stand on the sideline with your rack of six water bottles and a towel thrown over your shoulder, watching them run through formations. They move with so much cohesion, like they’ve been playing together for years.

One of them is lean, a little tall, with longer dark hair put up in a ponytail. He glances over at you during a water break. He doesn’t say anything, just nods at you, then jogs back to the line.

Okayyyyyy, that’s definitely new.

You’re used to being ignored or hit on. The casual nod feels normal, like he’s a regular, sane person. Like you’re just part of the staff, as you should be.

It’s refreshing.

You're back where you belong. Hands filled with water bottles, eyes down, existing in the margins.

His name is Seonghwa.

You don’t learn it until about the third or fourth practice, you can’t exactly remember. When he walks over during a break and asks, “You’re new, right?”

“Transferred from football,” you say, handing him a water bottle. “Sophomore.”

Sophomore? What the fuck is wrong with you? He didn’t ask???

“Ahhh.” He takes a long drink, sweat trickling down his neck, wipes his mouth off. “ Yeah, we just got a new transfer too. Keeps to himself, though. I’m Hwa. Well, Seonghwa, but everyone calls me Hwa.”

“Cool. I’m–”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts, not in a weird way. More like he just truly already knows. “You worked with the linebackers last year, saw you around.”

Duh, football and soccer do use the same training room.

You didn’t think anyone really paid that much attention, you were always all over the place, it seemed.

“Oh well, yes, that was me.”

He nods, looks at you for a second as whistles and cleats scuffing up the dirt become background noise. “You like it better here?”

“So far.”

“Good–I’m glad.” He grins, his smile is pretty–it’s genuine. “Defenders are way more fun than the mouth breathing linebackers. Trust.”

You chuckle, then he’s gone, jogging back to the line before you can properly respond.

Every practice, Seonghwa finds a reason to talk to you. Not in a flirty way, just platonic, like he’s curious about you.

He asks about your classes, your major, what you’re doing after practice. It’s small talk that doesn’t feel forced, it makes practice bearable.

One day, he’s sitting on the bench during a water break, and you’re refilling your water bottles at the water cow nearby. He glances over and does a double-take.

“Wait—are you in orgo chem 433?

You blink, “mhm, why?”

“I’m in that class.” He laughs, shaking his head. “How did I not notice you?”

“It’s a big lecture hall,” you say. “I’m super early so I can find a seat in the back.”

“I sit in the middle rows. We should sit together.”

Really? Is that a good idea? No fraternization and all.

“Sure. If you wanna.”

“Cool.” He stands, stretches. “I’ll save you a seat so you don’t lose any more sleep by showing up early.”

He stands by those words.

Sitting with Seonghwa in class changes things. You have someone to compare notes with, someone to complain about the professor’s way of explaining molecular geometry, someone to go to the dining hall with after lecture.

He’s easy to be around, no pressure, no expectations. Just his friendship.

I didn’t realize how much I needed this.

After a class, you’re walking across campus together, and he just asks, “You doing okay? Like for real for real okay?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“Just checking in with you. Never hurts.”

You think about Mingi, that relationship, the relief after it ended. “I think so.”

That’s good enough for him, he doesn’t push. “You deserve that.”

Do I, though? You don’t know how to respond, so you just smile.

The defenders are growing on you. They probably came out of the womb screaming, but it’s the good kind of loud. Playful and supportive.

You start learning their names, their personalities, the ones who prefer pickle juice over gatorade. The ones who come to you first to have their fingers and ankles taped.

There’s one guy who’s always quiet. Built, beautiful arms and calves, brownish hair. He doesn’t talk much during practice, but focuses on drills with such intense energy.

You’ve seen how he lingers in the back, observes more than anything. Doesn’t engage with the group the way the others do.

No clue who that is.

October, you’ve found your rhythm. Classes with Seonghwa, practice, study sessions in the library. Your grades are improving, sleep is so much better. Your screentime has gone down, your phone doesn’t consume you anymore.

I’m doing okay.

After practice, Seonghwa walks you to your car. It’s become a ritual, he parks near you every day

“You coming to the game this weekend?”

“Um, yes. I’m working it.”

He leans against your car, arms crossed. “You should come to the team dinner after. The bar that’s close to campus.”

“I don’t know..” You hesitate, “I’m just supposed to be staff.”

“So? You’re part of the team. We’d be dehydrated and breaking ankles without you.” He grins, “C’monnn. It’ll be fun.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll come.”

He pushes off your car, pats your head, and starts walking towards his. “See you tomorrow.”

The game is so intense. You’re on the sideline, doing your job with ease. Water bottles, towels, keeping track of substitutions, helping with minor tape jobs. But you’re also watching, actually paying attention to the game in a way you never did with football.

Your group is fast, coordinated, and aggressive. Moving like a unit, it makes you proud in a way, even though you do very little in their capacity of competing.

Seonghwa is in the middle of it all, calls out plays, directs the traffic. He’s a leader in many ways, the kind of player everyone looks to when things get crazy.

Then there’s mr quiet guy.

He’s playing today. On the field, he’s not quiet at all. He’s very vocal, commanding. You find yourself fumbling with bottles, watching him more than you should.

You still don’t know his name, you still don’t ask.

During a water break in the half, you’re refilling bottles on the sideline when you glance up. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, catching his breath, and his eyes are already on you. Not scanning the sideline, you. You shake it off, tell yourself you imagined when he looks away, but now apparently you don’t know how to hold bottles.

The team ends the game with a win, which makes for a chaotic team dinner. The defenders group takes over half the bar, shoves tables and barstools together, order so much food.

Seonghwa saves a stool for you, and you sit down feeling a little out of place, but still feel welcomed. The quiet guy is sitting at the far end of the shoved-together tables. He’s talking and laughing.

First time I’ve seen the guy smile.

You look away before he notices you staring.

Except, the whole time, he was tracking your movement throughout the crowd without you noticing him first. Seonghwa nudges you. “You good?”

You grab a wing from the many baskets that were ordered. ‘“Yeah. I’m enjoying myself!”

Spring season is um…unique. The schedule is more chill, but more training as far as strength and conditioning goes.

Your boss asks if you can pick up extra shifts, you say yes without thinking. You need the money, and honestly, you need the distraction.

That’s when Kallan shows up. She’s the new student hire, assigned to work with the forwards, offense, opposite of you.

First day, she walks onto the field, wearing oversized glasses, messy bun. You know, I just rolled out of bed look.

“Hey,” she says, dropping her medkit next to yours. “I’m Kallan. They said I’d be shadowing you?”

“Um, likely just shadowing me during setup, we will be on opposite sides of the field once practice actually starts.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

You show her how to set up the water station, how to stay out of the way during drills, track players who need special attention. She picks it up quickly, asks good questions, and doesn’t complain about the early mornings.

By the end of the week, you grab lunch together after practices, and by the second week, she’s texting you memes at 2am. She quickly became your best friend.

“You need to go out more,” she says one day, sprawled on the grass during a break. “Like, actually go out, get cute. Not just team dinners.”

“I do go out.”

“Studying with Hwa doesn’t count.”

You throw a towel at her, she laughs as she rolls over to dodge it. “I’m serious–We’re in college, we gotta live a little.”

She’s not wrong, you’ve been so focused on fixing grades, staying out of boy trouble, that you forgot what it feels like to just exist and have fun.

Spring break comes and goes, you go home for a few days, sleep in your old bed, eat your mom's cooking after living on fast food. But you’re weirdly relieved when you get back to campus.

After break, everyone’s rusty, drills are sloppy, coaches yelling a lot more than usual. The feeling of staring starts. You’re organizing tape and supplies when Kallan nudges you hard enough to make you drop a roll.

“Ow, what–”

“Don’t look now, but that guy. Been starin’ at ya for like five minutes straight.”

“He’s not—”

“He is. I'm watching him watch you right now. It’s actually kinda intense.”

You roll your eyes, don’t look. But you feel your face heat up, and you focus hard on rewrapping the tape you just dropped.

“Ok ok, he’s looking away now,” Kallan whispers, “but girl, he was looking.”

One afternoon practice you’re refilling bottles when someone taps your shoulder. You turn around, it’s him, mr quiet guy.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is warm and deep, smooth like honey. “You’re back.”

“Uh…Yeah. Break’s over and all.”

"How was it?"

Is this dude actually making small talk….?

"Boring, nothing exciting. Yours?"

He shifts his weight, glances away for a second like he's deciding what to say. "It was fine. Quiet." He pauses, "Needed the break, I guess."

You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks back at you, assessing."Glad to be back, though. The field's been boring without you."

He smiles, and it's the same smile you saw at the team dinner, but it's in your face now, and it makes your stomach do something weird.

“I’m Yeosang, by the way.”

“I know,” you say, even though you didn’t know until this very moment.

He laughs, “Do you?”

“I mean—I do now.”

He grabs a freshly refilled bottle from your hand, fingers brushing yours for half a second. “See you.”

“Kang Yeosang back on the line now!”

He drops the bottle on the ground as he sprints away. Kallan appears next to you, handing you the dropped bottle.

She has the most sinister smile on her face. “What was that?”

“Dunno.”

“He’s never talked to you before.”

“Wholeheartedly aware of that, K.”

“Now he’s what, introducing himself? After a whole semester?”

“Guess soooo.”

She squirts water on your shoe. “He’s cute.”

“K–”

She puts her hands up in defense, “I’m just saying!”

Hey Siri, play Don’t by Bryson Tiller.

But the talking doesn’t stop, over the next weeks Yeosang had become a chatterbox. Mindless things, really, but it’s consistent.

Then the hugging starts. Not full hugs, quick side hugs that seem universal for every d1 college athlete. The one that shouldn’t mean anything.

But it does mean something when he does it, he lingers, and when he pulls away, he’s always smiling.

Kallan notices it. “He’s def into you, girly.” She says after watching him jog away.

“He’s not.”

“He is.”

“He’s just being friendly, just like the rest of them.”

“Friendly.” She snorts. “Right, because all the other guys hug you like that.”

They don’t, and I know that.

You’re packing up after practice when your phone buzzes.

unknown: what’s up it’s yeosang

unknown: got ur # from one of the guys, hope that’s cool

He got my number without asking. Kallan leans over your shoulder, reads the texts and squeals like a kid in a candy shop.

“Oh my god!!!”

“Shut up.”

“You have to respond.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” But you do respond, feels rude to leave him hanging.

you: hey, yeah that’s fine

yeosang: u doing anything after practice tmr?

you: depends, why?

yeosang: wanna grab food?

Kallan is about to jump out of her clothes, watching this unfold. “Say yes. Say yes.”

“I don’t know—”

“Just do it.”

You hesitate. This is a bad idea, know it is. There are rules about this, fraternization policies, staff–player boundaries, all the things written in your contract, and the things your boss drilled into your head when you started.

But…

you: sure.

You’re a mess. You packed clothes for after practice, for lunch since you have a break before your classes start for the day. You put so much thought into the outfit, you have no clue why.

Kallan laughs at you as you explained your whole morning and she can see clothes spilling out of your bag.

“Relax, it’s just food.”

It’s not.

Practice dragssss. Every time Yeosang looks at you, your stomach does somersaults, every time he smiles you’re about mix up player meds.

Oh shit. Let’s not mix pain meds with laxatives ma’am.

When it’s over, he walks up to you, still in his practice stuff, hair damp with sweat.

“Gonna shower fast and change. You’ll be ready?”

“Yeah. Let me just—”

“Take your time.”

You grab your bag, drag Kallan to the staff room to change, and so she can help you. She gives you a thumbs up in the mirror once you both figure it out and gives you that knowing look.

You end up at a small family-owned burger joint off campus, which lots of students frequent. He orders a burger, you order a salad, and for a few minutes, it feels normal.

Then out the blue he says, “so what do you want?”

“Huh?”

“Like, what are you looking for? With this?” He gestures between the two of you.

Ohhhh, wow, okay, yeah, totally.

“Um–I wasn’t really looking for anything.”

“But if you were?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know if this is a good idea. The whole…staff—player thing.”

“I’m aware.” He leans back, spreads his legs, shoes slightly tap yours under the table. Looks at you, eyes hiding under his hair. “But I’m asking anyway.”

So many damn but’s.

"Why?"

He glances away for a second, jaw tightening like he's deciding how much to say. He's testing whether you're worth the risk. "Because I want to know."

You take a breath, a visible exhale, goosebumps rising on your arms. You’re trying not to fidget. “I don’t do casual. If that’s what you’re asking.”

He smiles, and it’s so perfect. “Neither do I.”

“I’m interested in you despite what the fuck the contracts says.”

“I–”

He puts his hand up, pauses you. “You don’t have to have an answer now, just think about it.”

I’m already thinking about it.

The rest of the meal is easier with that sitting in the back of your mind. When he drops you off at your car, he doesn’t hug you, just shoves his hands into his pockets, looking at you like you’re as pretty as a winning number on a scoreboard.

“What are you doing this weekend?” He asks.

“Probably nothing.”

He smiles again. “Text me.” Then he opens your door for you and leaves without another word.

You sit in your car, hands on the steering wheel. Look how disheveled you look in your rearview mirror. Your phone buzzes.

K: tell me everything, neowwwww

You laugh, you’re so beside yourself right now. You don’t really know what you’re doing, but you know you’re going to say yes.

The spring game finally comes around. Families everywhere, recruits touring, coaches barking like it’s a conference game.

You’re running all over the place, trying to not to trip over equipment bags scattered across the sidelines.

Yeosang plays well, you watch his every move. How his calves pulse when he pivots, the way he wipes sweat with his jersey, the way he adjusts his shorts, or bends over to retie his cleats.

Fucking weirdo, stop staring.

The final whistle blow, you pack up as usual, folding stuff, breaking down the rest areas, shoving ice bags into coolers. Most of the team is gone, heading to the locker room or meeting family in the stands.

Yeosang lingers.

He’s standing near the bench, unwrapping his fingers, talking to one of the forwards. His eyes keep flicking toward you, you feel it every time.

When you finish loading the last cooler onto the golf cart, he walks over.

“Hey.”

You look up. He’s so close, you see the grass stains on his shorts and legs, scratches on his arms, sweat still dripping from the tips of his hair.

“Hey yourself.”

He grins, pulls out his phone, types, shows you the screen, and it’s an address.

“Come hang.” He pockets his phone, starts walking backward toward the locker room. “Stop thinking so hard, just come. I’ll be there in like an hour.”

You stare out onto the field, everything is a recipe for disaster.

you: yo yeosang just invited me to hang tn, wtf wtf.

K: BITCH GO. im busy with my own situation rn but text me after

You shake your head, get on the golf cart, and start driving towards the equipment shed. You try to rush so you have enough time to shower and change beforehand.

Fine, I’ll go. Shit.

The address leads you to an apartment complex on the west part of campus. The nice ones, the ones where you can park without being towed.

But as you’re driving, something really nips at you. He just gave an address, not my place, or my roommate’s, no context at all. You’ve never been to his apartment, or know where he even lives. You’re just trusting his words and the gps on your dash.

You park, check your reflection. You look decent. It’s a casual hang, you put on a hoodie and some sweats.

At least I don’t smell like sweat.

You text Yeosang that you’re outside, he responds right away to come up on your own since the door was already open.

You take the stairs, because you’ll shit yourself because the elevator is so slow—too much time to second-guess your decisions. When you reach the fifth floor, you follow the apartment numbers until you land on the right one.

The door is cracked, music playing, vape-like smoke flowing out. You knock anyway.

“Come in!” Someone shouts.

You push the door open and freeze. Because standing in the kitchen, pouring a drink, is Seonghwa.

Wait a damn minute.

Your best friend. The person you see every day. The person you’ve been confiding in about everything. He’s here, in this apartment–which only means one thing.

He looks up, sees you, and his face does that slow smile that makes your stomach drop. A smile that says he’s been waiting for you. “Oh shit,” he says, setting the vodka bottle down. “You’re here.”

He fucking knew.

“I–” You glance around the apartment. It definitely is his. You’ve never visited his apartment despite how close you’ve been, but you notice the artwork and furniture from your FaceTime calls with him. “This is your place.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, still smiling. “Yeosang didn’t tell you?”

No, why would he?

Before you can respond, Yeosang walks out of the hallway, freshly showered, wearing gray sweats with a black tank that clings to him in the best way.

“You made it.” He’s grinning.

You stare at him, then at Seonghwa. Then back at Yeosang.

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. He engineered this. He brought you here knowing it was Seonghwa’s place. Knowing you didn’t know they were close like this, knowing your two separate worlds of being staff and the one of being this secret were about to collide in a way that couldn’t be undone.

“You live here too?”

“Nah, only Hwa. I’m just here a lot.”

Seonghwa snorts, “A lot is an understatement. I should start charging you rent at this point.”

You didn’t realize your best friend was this close to him. You knew they were teammates, obviously, but this is different. This is best friend level close. I have a key to your place close.

The kind of close where they talk about things, where Yeosang probably mentioned you, and Seonghwa already knows.

Now you’re standing in the middle of this apartment, and Seonghwa is looking at you like he’s not just figuring something out, but confirming it. The way his eyes move between you and Yeosang, the way his smile hasn’t dropped.

He’s not confused or surprised, he’s waiting to see what you’ll do now that the secret is out. It was out the moment you walked through that door.

“Want a drink?” Seonghwa asks, grabbing another solo cup.

You nod, and he pours some more clear and hands it to you. You take a sip and regret it, he offers you no kind of chaser.

Lightweight.

“This shit burns Hwa.”

“You’ll survive.”

Yeosang laughs, grabs his own drink, sits on the couch. You follow, perched on the edge of the cushion, trying to be as normal as possible.

Seonghwa keeps glancing at you, Yeosang keeps sitting too close, and you’re very aware of how small this apartment feels with the three of you in it.

The hours blur, you talk about the spring game, the latest girl Seonghwa is messing around with. Then Seonghwa begins to talk about how Yeosang got lost on campus during his first week, and Yeosang throws a pillow at him.

Underneath all this, there’s this sense of awareness that Seonghwa knows something is happening, even if it hasn’t been said out loud.

Around 1am, Seonghwa pours another round. “To spring season coming to an end!”

“To not getting run over,” you add. Yeosang just grins and drinks.

By the time you check the clock again, it’s past 2am. Seonghwa is yawning, stretching, making noises about needing to sleep.

“I’m kicking you both out,” he says, standing. “I have a thing in the morning, and last I checked, this isn’t the Marriott.”

“What thing?” Yeosang asks.

“A thing. Go home. Make sure she makes it back safely.”

You stand, grabbing your keys, and Yeosang follows you to the door. Seonghwa catches your eye as you leave. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is clear as day. We’re talking about this later.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Yeosang walks you to your car. The parking lot is quiet, a little eerie, every sound is like a boom box in your ears.

You unlock your car, but don’t get in right away. “Thanks for coming,” Yeosang says.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

He steps closer. “Can we talk for a second?”

“Mhm.”

You both get in the car, you in the driver’s seat, him in the passenger. You leave the engine off, the windows cracked, letting the spring air seep in.

He turns to you, leg propped up in his seat. Leaning on your middle console. “I meant what I said.”

Your heart is pounding, it’s about to hop out and do donuts in the damn parking lot. “About what?”

“About wanting this. With you.”

You swallow. “Yeosang—”

“I know it’s complicated. I know there are rules. But I really couldn’t give a shit.”

“You should care.”

“Why?” His eyes are locked on yours now. “Because some contract says we can’t? Because people might talk?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t give a fuck what people think.”

He kisses you, he moves his hand to your jaw, taste of vodka and strawberry smoke on his lips. You gasp, and he deepens the kiss, his other hand roams to your neck.

Oh my.

This is what you’ve been missing, what every other kiss has been trying to be.

Your hands pull him closer, and he groans. Then his hand moves down your neck and across your collarbone, going under your hoodie. His fingers are calloused, his hands veiny, when they brush against your ribs you shiver.

“Is this okay?” He whispers before continuing.

“Very okay.”

He kisses you again, rougher this time, and you’re obsessed with how he’s making you feel in the moment.

Your hands slide up his chest, into his hair. He’s breathing hard as he pulls back to look at you, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“How long?”

“Since the first time I fucking saw you.”

Liar. But you kiss him anyway. Being horny, confused, and slightly tipsy never led to good decisions.

His hand slides higher, thumb brushes your bra and you arch into him.

“We should stop,” but he does the opposite, his mouth moves to your neck, sucks there for a moment.

“We should.” You whisper.

You don’t stop still, you stay like that for god knows how long, all you feel is him and the way he whispers in your ear.

“I want more,” he says quietly. “I want all of it.”

You close your eyes, you’re scared deep down. You want to trust him, lean into him.

“Let me give it to you.”

You nod because you can’t speak, your throat is closed shut, and your chest hurts. You start to understand why liking someone makes you do dumb things.

God.

He kisses you one more time and pulls back. “Drive safe,” he says opening the door.

“You too.”

He does that grin. “I’m walking, not far from here.”

“Right.” He closes the door, taps the roof, and walks away. You sit there, shaking, replaying every little second that just transpired.

The can of worms I just opened…

You look at yourself in the mirror, and you’re a mess. Emotionally and physically. You start the engine and pull out of the parking lot. The drive back and all you can think about is his lips on yours, his eyes.

Eyes you can feel yourself drowning in.

You show up to practice a few days later and immediately regret everything you’ve done in any capacity.

Kallan is already setting up the med kit when you arrive, and she gives you a look that says bitch we’re talking about this later. You avoid eye contact, fill water bottles while spilling, doing your actual job, anything that doesn’t involve looking at the grassy field.

Yeosang is stretching near the middle of the field with a few other defenders. Your hands shake while you’re cutting the pre-wrap, drop the scissors twice. Your resort to just ripping it with your hands.

“You okay?” Kallan whispers, leaning close.

“Fine.”

“You’ve always been so bad at lying.”

You shrug your shoulders, move on, because she's so right. Practice starts, and you slip into autopilot. Your body knows what to do without your brain having to think about it. Players call for you and you're already there, already moving, already anticipating what they need before they ask. 

It's the only thing keeping you together right now. Your hands steady when they're working. Your breathing levels out. You exist only in the task in front of you.

The way I’m supposed to be.

Except you’re not invisible, not when it comes to him.

You’re crouched down next to a midfielder, wrapping his ankle when you feel that awareness. You glance up, and Yeosang is standing a few feet away, water bottle in hand, staring directly at you.

He doesn’t look away, just stares at you. You break first, drop your gaze back to the ankle you’re working on, fingers fumbling the tape.

Please get your shit together.

“You sure you good? I never see you fumble like this,” the midfielder asks, looking down at you.

“Yeah yeah, sorry. You’re set.”

He jogs off, and you stand, brushing dirt off your knees. When you look up again, Yeosang is back in the drill, but Kallan is staring at you with her mouth a little open.

“What?” It comes off pretty sharp, you’re on edge.

“What?” She repeats, eyes wide. “Dude. He was literally just—”

“Stop.”

“Oh, my god. Something did fucking happen.”

“Kallan.”

“We’re talking about this tonight. My room, order wings or something, and you’re spilling your guts.”

You don’t argue, you want to tell someone before you pull your hair out. Practice ends and you pack up quicker than usual, keeping your head down. You’re loading the med kit into the storage closet when you hear footsteps, cleats hitting the floor.

“Hey.”

You freeze, turn around. Yeosang is standing in the doorway of the training room, still in all of his practice stuff.

“Hi.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No, it’s called working.”

“Sure.” He steps closer, “You okay?”

Everyone keeps asking me that. No, no, I’m not.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He nods, turns to leave. “Text me later?”

You know you shouldn’t. “Okay.”

He grins just a little and walks out. You stand there for a few minutes, heart banging, before Kallan appears in the doorway.

“I’m ordering cinnamon rolls too,” she says flatly. “You need it.”

Kallan’s dorm smells like fried food and acetone. She’s sitting criss-crossed on her bed, two boxes of wings open between you, cinnamon rolls still warm in the container. You’re on the floor with your back against her bed frame, trying to eat celery even though you hate it.

“Okay.” Kallan says, wiping lemon pepper off her fingers. “Start talkin’.”

You take a short breath. “We kissed.”

She doesn’t even blink. “I need details.”

You tell her everything. The apartment, the hours of drinking and talking, Yeosang walking to your car. The way he kissed you, how his hands made you shiver, the way he said I want more.

By the time you finish, Kallan’s jaw is dropped. “Wow, shit–That’s...” She pauses, reaches for another wing. “That’s really fucking romantic and also completely insane.”

“Like, you get that you could lose your job, right? If anyone finds out–”

“I know, Kallan.”

She’s quiet for a second, chewing. “Does Seonghwa know? Like, know know?”

“I’m sure he has a clue, he’s not stupid.”

“And you haven’t talked to him since?”

You shake your head. Your phone has been on DND since you left that parking lot. You’ve been too scared to even look at it.

Kallan leans forward on her knees. “Okay. Real talk, do you actually want this? Not just the kissing and the he’s hot part. Do you want him?”

You don’t hesitate one bit. “Yes.”

“Even if it means sneaking around? Lying to everyone, your boss? Possibly blowing up your credits?”

Yes. I hate to say it. Yes.

“I think so.”

“Then you need to get ahead of this. Talk to Hwa before he comes to you and figure out what the hell you’re actually doing with Yesoang, because ‘we made out in a parking lot’ isn’t going to cut it.”

“What if Seonghwa hates the idea, hates me?”

“He won’t. He’s your best friend, dude. He’ll be pissed, maybe, but he won’t hate you. Just needs to hear it from you first.”

You nod, pull out your phone and your heart sinks. Texts from Seonghwa.

hwa: you okay?

hwa: we should talk

hwa: let me know when you’re free please

Kallan reads your screen, hands you a cinnamon roll. “Eat this, then text him back.”

you: tmr after orgo?

hwa: yeah. my place

Kay, gonna go cry now.

Seonghwa’s apartment looks the same as before, a little bit more lived in, a less mysterious place this go round. You jiggle the knob, door is already unlocked.

He’s sitting on the couch when you arrive, legs stretched out, arms crossed. He looks tired.

“Hey,” you say as you close the door behind you. He nods, and you sit on the opposite end of the couch. You both don’t speak for a while.

Seonghwa finally sighs, gets straight to the point. “So. Yeosang.”

Your throat tightens.

“How long?”

“It’s not–” You stop yourself, knowing not to lie to him. “Since spring break, officially. But he’s been…I don’t know, watching me since fall.”

Seonghwa nods, like he knows already. “He told me.”

“He told you?”

“After you left, he came back up.” He rubs his face with both hands. “He said he kissed you, said he’s been trying to get your attention for months, and finally got it.”

I–I don’t even know what to feel, say. What the fuck.

“Look,” Seonghwa continues, “I’m not mad. I’m not going to lecture you about rules or whatever. You’re an adult, but I need you to be real with me right now. What are you doing?”

“I dunno.”

“Bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.”

You flinch a bit, Seonghwa doesn’t swear at you, not ever.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” his voice is firm. “You’re risking your job, your reputation. The thing you worked your ass off to rebuild after the football transfer. And for what? A guy you’ve known for what, two months?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Please enlighten me on what the hell it’s like.”

You try to grasp for the words. "He makes me feel…like I matter? Like, actually matter. Not like I'm just the water girl or the trainer or someone's girlfriend. He looks at me like I'm—"

"Like you're worth that risk." Seonghwa finishes for you.

You nod slowly. The risk.

"I get it. I do. But you need to understand what you're walking into. If your boss finds out, you're done. If the team finds out, it's a whole thing. And Yeosang—" He pauses. "Yeosang doesn't do anything halfway. If you're in, you're in."

"I watch you protect yourself with everything, and I'm worried you're about to blow up the life you just got back."

Your eyes start to sting, and everything he’s saying holds so much weight with you. You’re scared, and he knows it.

He reaches over to squeeze your hand. “Be smart about this, dude, don’t get sloppy. And for the love of god, don’t let anyone else see what I saw between you last night.”

You laugh a little, “Oh, what did you see?”

“You looking at him like you’d drink his backwash if he asked.” Seonghwa shakes his head, smiling. “It was gross, never inviting you both over again.”

He lets go of your hand. “Just be careful, please.”

You stay for another twenty minutes, talking about class and practice and anything that doesn’t involve the name that starts with Y. When you leave, Seonghwa hugs you at the door.

“I’m still your best friend,” he says into your hair. “Even when you’re being so so dumb.”

“Love you too, Hwa.”

Days pass, and it’s late April when your lovely roommate tells you she’s leaving for the weekend. Claims it’s a family emergency, you nod, wish her well, but your brain is already calculating next steps.

Empty room…two nights…no interruptions.

You don’t text Yeosang right away, you wait until she’s actually gone and you hear her physically leave the parking lot.

you: roommate’s gone for the weekend

yeosang: be there in 20

You spend those twenty minutes in a full spiral. You know the ritual every college girl knows when a boy comes to their dorm.

Cleaning every crevice, you even think about cleaning the grout in the bathroom. You change your sheets, light your favorite candles, check your reflection ten times. Realize you’re wearing the same hoodie he’s seen you in before.

Wait–who cares?

When he knocks, you open the door, and he’s standing there with a grin and two large qt slushies and a bag of lifesaver gummies.

“You brought snacks?”

“Duh, thoughtful like that.” He steps inside, hands you your drink. “How was your day?”

Asks such a basic question, but you read so much into it like you’re not about to cross every line to ever exist.

“Long,” you admit, “Had a demonstration in physics. Pretty sure I bombed it. The ta gave me not so good looks.”

“You didn’t bomb it…maybe they were just expressive?”

You giggle, like the optimism, even though he has no clue. “You’re too hard on yourself.” He sets the lifesavers on your desk, turns to face you.

You take a sip of the slush, pretty sure you gave yourself a brain freeze it almost creates a headache. He watches you as you hold your temples.

“C’mere,” he says quietly.

You set your drink down to avoid responding. His hands find your waist, pulling you in until you’re standing between his legs, where he’s leaning against your desk.

“Hi pretty.”

You shy away, feeling all the butterflies, but he grabs your chin to face him and kisses you. His hands slide up your sides, under your hoodie, tracing your spine.

He pulls back. “Can I stay?”

“You may.”

“You sure?”

You cup his face, squeeze his cheeks. “Yeosang. I’m sure.”

He goes in to kiss you again, hands move to pull your hoodie over your head. You know where this is about to go, and you’re not scared.

You move to your bed, thankful your university supplies fulls instead of twins. The mattress dips under your weight as you lie back, and he hovers over you, eyes searching for answers on your face.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

You shake your head no.

“Words, I will stop this second, I swear.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

He kisses you more, his lips find every point on your body. Caresses your body like silk, being so gentle. The opposite of how he is on the field.

He removes his own shirt, and your hands run over his chest, his biceps, his shoulders. His arms are my favorite.

“Touchy,” he says, amused.

“You’re built so prettily, what can I say?”

He laughs, dips his head to kiss you again. “I’d argue you’re prettier in this case.” The rest of your clothes come off slowly. When you’re down to your underwear, the reality of it all hits you.

Your body and mind are aware of every touch, the roughness of his hands, his mouth, the way your little bed frame creaks when he shifts.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m nervous.”

He lifts his head to look at you. “We don’t have to–”

“No, I want to.” You pull him back down. “I’m just…it’s different.”

He knows what you mean. Different from Mingi, different from the only person you’ve ever done this with.

“We’ll go slow.”

His fingers hook into your panties, and you nod. He pulls them down, and you’re open like a 24/7 McDonald’s in front of him. He takes a second to just look, and your face heats up.

“Stop staring.”

“Can’t help it.” His voice is deeper, rougher. “You’re so damn pretty.”

He kisses you again, and his hand slides between your legs. You gasp when his fingers glide up and down, watching how your face contorts.

“This okay?”

“Yeah.”

He opens you up slowly with one finger, then starts scissor motion with two. You’re gripping his shoulders, trying not to make too much noise because the dorm walls are thin. But it feels good, better than you expected.

It feels so perfect.

then a flash. Your boss's face when he transferred you. EW.  This is exactly what he meant. This is the thing he was trying to prevent, and you're doing it anyway, in a dorm room with thin walls. 

Stop thinking. Stop.

But you can't. Because if anyone finds out, you lose your job. Your grad school applications. Everything you rebuilt. He pulls back slightly, sensing the shift in your body. "You good?"

You are making a choice you can't unmake. But his eyes are on yours, waiting, and you realize you don't care about any of it, not the job, not the rules, not the inevitable fallout. You want this more than you want to be safe.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Keep going."

When he pulls his hand away, you whine at the loss. He sits back, pulls off his boxers, your stomach flips when you look down.

There’s no way he’s that big. No way no way no way.

He catches you staring and smirks. “Like?”

“Please shut up.”

He laughs, leans over to his discarded pants to pull a condom out of the pocket. He tears the packet with his teeth, and you watch in awe.

“Come here,” he says as he settles between your legs.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down until his forehead hits yours. He lines himself up, and you feel the pressure, the stretch as he starts to push in.

“Breathe, you’re tensing.” He whispers.

You breathe through the discomfort, the fullness, trying to give your body time to adjust. He goes super slow, giving you time.

“Okay?” His voice is strained, you think he probably just wants to pound into you, but he’s showing so much restraint.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He pushes in further, and you gasp, nails digging into his back. It’s a lot, but it’s not painful. When he’s fully inside, he stops, lets you adjust again, presses kisses to your jaw and neck.

“Uhhh–you feel so good. So fucking good.”

You can’t respond, you’re too busy trying to process the sensation, the closeness of it, the way he’s laser-focused on you.

You feel every inch of him when he starts thrusting, his breathing, your breathing, the slickness of your bodies. The gasps you can’t hold back.

“Look at me,” he says.

You direct your attention to him, his gaze is intense. He’s really seeing me.

With Mingi, sex felt comfortable, familiar. You knew what to expect, the rhythm, how it would end. This feels opposite, every touch feels intentional and like a choice.

“So so beautiful.” He whispers. He shifts the angle and you cry out, so he hits that spot over and over until your shaking beneath him.

“Yeo–”

“I got you I got you.”

His hands slides between your bodies, finds your clit and your back arches as he continues to move inside you. The pleasure builds fast and you’re clinging to him so hard, he’s the only solid thing around you.

You come hard, and you feel him follow a little later as his body tenses and groans against your neck. For a moment, you’re both breathing hard and tangled together.

He pulls out, ties off the condom, tosses it in the trash by your desk. I need to take the trash out before she gets back.

Then he’s back, pulling you into his arms, and you bury your face in his chest.”Everything okay?”

You nod, water glossing over your eyes.

“Hey hey.” He tilts your chin up, wipes the tears with his thumb. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine…It’s just a lot.”

“Good or bad?”

“Good…really good.”

He kisses your forehead. Oh shit, not the forehead kiss. Then kisses your cheeks, the tip of your nose.

“You scared me for a second.”

“Sorry.”

He pulls you closer and wraps the blanket around both of you. “I meant what I said before, I’m all in with you.”

You lie there in the quiet, replaying every moment that just transpired. Treated you like you mattered, like you were more than just a body or a distraction.

You don’t know it yet, but you’ll replay this night obsessively all summer. When the texts stop coming, when the promises evaporate. When you realize that all in meant something different to him than it did to you.

Right now in this moment, his arms around you and the sound of his heart under your head makes you feel safe.

Moving into May becomes a rush of precious moments and navigation. Kallan, knowing the full truth, only adds to the excitement.

Kallan documents everything, down to secret photos like the two of you leaving practice separately but meeting up five minutes later in the parking lot, screenshots of his morning texts, candid pictures of him looking at you when you’re focused on something else.

She’s so giddy about it constantly, sends you the evidence with captions like he’s so downbad, and you’re such a simp.

And you are definitely such a simp for him.

Every morning begins the same. His text always comes first, never the cliche good mornings, but things like how’d you sleep? or what’s your schedule today? He always remembers how you get mean when you haven’t had time for your weekly sushi fix, so he shows up after every orgo lab with a tray of it. He learns your routine faster than anything else.

“You don’t gotta do this every time.”

“Don’t care, wanted to, schedule open.”

He’s thinking about me and acts on it.

You start to compare the difference with Mingi, everything felt like maintenance. Checking in out of requirement instead of it being a want, saying i love you out of expectation.

Yeosang feels like a choice, a purpose.

The physical stuff is 24/7 when you two are alone, kisses in your car after practice, hands on your thigh as you drive. Late night dorm visits when your roommate’s asleep, going to his apartment, learning the way his breath catches when you kiss his neck, the sound he makes when your hands slide under his shirt.

You learn every part of his body. The mole on his vline, the scar on his leg from being kicked during a game. The way his muscle tenses up right before he comes, how he pulls you close each time.

“Why are you staring at me in the pitch black?” he says sleepily, half asleep in bed.

You trace his birthmark near his eye, “Just appreciating what I’m lying next to.”

He laughs, eyes squinting, “You’re so silly.”

He’s just so different. I feel it.

But when you text him about summer, just asking if he's thought about what you two are doing when he leaves for training, and he doesn't respond. An hour passes, you check your phone, delivered and not read.

Three hours go. You're spiraling now. Did you say something wrong? Was the question too much? You reread your text for the hundredth time. It's a normal question to ask your boyfriend. Except, am I his girlfriend? He's never actually said it. You've never actually said it. 

Your stomach starts doing this thing where it twists and doesn't untwist, like you’re getting a literal stomachache. 

The guy who double-texts when you don't respond fast enough. Who sends you voice memos Who texts miss you after you've been apart for twenty minutes.

That guy does not go five hours without responding. Five hours, your phone buzzes and you nearly drop it.

yeosang: yeah we'll figure it out

It's flat. Like he's responding to a work email, like you asked him about a group project instead of about your entire fucking relationship. Like you're not someone he's been inside of, someone he promised he was all in for.

You scroll up through your texts, looking for proof that you didn't imagine the last weeks.

All of that and now you get yeah we'll figure it out like you're a problem he'll deal with later.

You don't sleep that night. The next day he goes through drills and when you hand him a water bottle during a break, his hand brushes yours and it feels like touching a stranger.

"Thanks," he says.

Just that, not your name. Not hey or thank you or the way he usually holds your gaze for a beat too long, that smile that says I know exactly what you look like under those clothes. 

He knows something's wrong. And he's choosing not to fix it. He's choosing to let you stand here, confused and spiraling, instead of just talking to you.

So you swallow the question, swallow the panic. Swallow the part of you that wants to grab his arm and demand to know what the fuck changed between yesterday and today. You hand the next water bottle to Seonghwa, trying to act like your chest isn't caving in.

The rest of practice is torture. When practice ends, he doesn't come find you. He used to always come find you. Even if it was just for thirty seconds, even if it was just to touch your hand or whisper see you later or steal a kiss when no one was looking. 

But today he just packs up his stuff and leaves with Seonghwa, and you stand there watching him go, feeling like you're watching the beginning of the end.

In the evening, he's texting you again. wish you were here with a photo of his food, and for a second you think maybe you imagined it, maybe you're spiraling over nothing, maybe he was just tired yesterday. You convince yourself that's true, need it to be true.

At practices, you’re careful, super professional. You hand him water bottles like you hand them to everyone else. You don’t linger, don’t stare, but the other defenders notice anyway. His eyes track your every movement, how you both show up early and leave late, the energy shifts when you’re in the same space.

They don't say anything, but you catch them smirking sometimes, exchanging looks.

Seonghwa watches, but he doesn't push, doesn't confront. You avoid being alone with him outside of class. He’s literally my best friend. What am I doing?

You think about why you’re avoiding everything, when the answer is clear as day.

You don't care about the staff-player boundaries or the optics or the fact that this could blow up in your face. You care about the way Yeosang texts you at 2am just to say can't sleep, thinking about you.

The way he remembers your favorite color is green, and how he always makes sure he’s taped up in green as a silent way of saying I'm yours. The way he looks at you is like you’re the soccer ball on the field.

Spring semester ends in a haze of finals and late-night study sessions where he quizzes you on organic chem and physics even though he already took it. You pass, barely, but he celebrates like you got a perfect score.

"Told you," he says, kissing your temple. "You're a smart girl."

The last practice of the semester feels bittersweet. Summer's coming, you'll both be around, he's going for summer training, you're staying for a second session of classes and work-study. But something about the end of spring feels like the end of something bigger.

I have an aching feeling in my chest, and I don’t know why.

That night, lying in his arms in your dorm room, feels like you've finally found the thing you didn't know you were looking for. Like the universe dropped this man in your lap.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, fingers tracing circles on your shoulder.

“Nothing…just happy." But I’m thinking about everything.

He kisses the top of your head, pulls you closer. "Me too."

You fall asleep wrapped up in him, in the certainty that this is real, that he meant what he said, that all in means the same thing to both of you.

You have no idea that spring showers will not bring you May flowers.

That the texts will stop all the way, that the promises will evaporate. That all in was only true when it was easy, but right now, in this moment, you believe him.

The first week of summer feels like you’re a flower absorbing the sun, but in reality, you’re wilting.

My color is leaving me.

Yeosang leaves for prep training, an intensive program on the west coast with scouts and coaches and other rising seniors trying to prove they're worth the investment. He texts you before his flight, sends a picture of his boarding pass with the caption miss you already.

You send back a heart and tell him to be safe.

I'm being so normal about this.

There's an ache in your chest that starts the second he boards that plane. You tell yourself it's just because you miss him.

The texts keep coming those first few days. Good morning messages that make you smile so hard, smile lines never leave your face.

Updates about how brutal the training is, how the coaches are riding him, how he's exhausted but it's worth it. He sends you a selfie post-workout, hair damp, face flushed, and you save it, screenshot it twice just to be sure.

you: good lookin kang yeo: you miss me yet? you: maybe a little yeo: just a little? damn

You smile at your phone like a dummy. Kallan notices and rolls her eyes.

"You're disgusting," she says.

"Shut up."

"I'm happy for you," she clarifies. "But also disgusting."

You don't tell her about the ache. About how you sleep with your phone on the pillow next to you, the heat making your pillow hot, volume turned all the way up, just in case he texts in the middle of the night.

About how the summer heat feels suffocating in a way it never did before, like the air is too thick.

He’ll be back, stop tweaking.

The second week, the texts are still there but slower. He's busy, you get it. You tell yourself this is normal, he's under pressure and focused.

I’m fine. Yeah. Fine.

Then his responses take hours again. Sometimes a full day. The good morning texts stop, you send him updates about your summer classes, about how you're dying in anatomy, about how Kallan almost set off the fire alarm, making a seafood boil in an air fryer at 1am.

He hearts the messages, doesn't reply, the bare minimum. A response that doesn’t really feel like one.

And those hearts, god, those hearts feel like crumbs. Like he's tossing you small little heartbeats just to keep you quiet, but always listening.

You stare at the little reaction, at the tiny acknowledgment that he saw what you said, and your stomach twists more.

At least he's reading them, at least he's thinking about me.

You try calling once, your hands shake as you press his name, as you listen to it ring until it goes to voicemail. You hang up immediately, heart pounding, body hot with shame.

What was I even going to say? "Hey, are we okay? Are you ghosting me? Did I do something wrong?"

You hate that thought the second it crosses your mind. Hate that you're becoming the person who waits by the phone, who checks for read receipts obsessively, who refreshes the message thread just to see if maybe, maybe, he's typing.

Kallan notices you checking your phone more. "He still being weird?"

"He's not being weird," you snap too quickly. "He's just busy."

"Uh-huh."

"He is."

You begin rationalizing everything. He's training, this is his career, his entire future. Of course he's focused. Of course, he doesn't have time to text.

you: hey, i know you're busy. just wanted to say i'm proud of you. you're gonna kill it.

He reads it immediately.

Wow. Read 11:30pm.

You watch the timestamp appear, watch it sit there. You stare at the screen until your eyes burn like they do with dry contacts. Until the letters blur. Until you have to put the phone down because the weight of it is so heavy.

No response is a response.

You don't text him again after that. Not for a few days. You tell yourself you're giving him space, but really, you're protecting yourself. Because every unanswered message feels like proof that you're not important, that you never were.

As summer continues, the texts have stopped completely. You're the only one reaching out, and even that feels pathetic now. The read receipts pile up like evidence of your own desperation.

Seonghwa asks if you're okay during a study session.

"Yeah, why?"

"You seem…off."

Off. That's one way to put it.

"Just tired.”

He doesn't believe you, but he lets it go. You're starting to realize that's Seonghwa's superpower, knowing when to push and when to just sit with you in silence.

You want to ask if he's heard from Yeosang. If Yeosang's mentioned you. If this is normal, or if you're being ghosted in real time.

You already know the answer, but hearing it out loud would make it real.

Your birthday is late July. You tell yourself, for an entire week leading up to it, that he's saving the gesture. That he's been distant because he's planning something. A surprise? A heartfelt message? Something I hope.

He knows when my birthday is, we talked about it in bed, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin. He asked when it was.

He smiled and said he'd remember. He has to remember.

Kallan tries to plan something, dinner, drinks, a night out, but you're weirdly anxious about committing to plans. Because what if he shows up? What if he flies back early to surprise you?

"You're waiting for him," Kallan says flatly, two days before your actual birthday.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm just—"

"Babe." She puts her hand on yours, and the gentleness in her voice makes your throat tight. "He's not coming."

You pull your hand back. "You don't know that."

The day before your birthday, you break. You send him one more text, and your hands are shaking so hard you have to retype it three times.

you: tmr is my birthday. i don't know if you remember. i know you're busy, but…i miss you. i hope you're okay.

You watch the message deliver. Watch it switch to read 9:25pm.

You wait for nothing. You fall asleep with your phone on your chest, the screen facing up so you'll see the notification the second it comes. You wake up every hour, reaching for the phone in the dark.

You wake up on your birthday to messages from Kallan, from Seonghwa, from your parents, from friends back home.

Nothing from Yeosang, his absence hits you. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, phone clutched in your hand.

It's early, he's probably still asleep. Time zones and all.

You check your phone every ten minute. You're refreshing instagram, twitter, anything to see if he's posted, if he's active, if he's even alive.

At 2, he posts a story. A gym selfie, sweaty, post-workout, no caption. Your stomach drops.

So he's awake. He's just ignoring me.

He's alive, he's fine. He's posting on social media for everyone to see. He just doesn't care enough to text you.

On my birthday.

Kallan takes you to dinner that night. Seonghwa comes too, brings you a cupcake with a little candle. They sing happy birthday horribly in the middle of the restaurant, and you smile because you're supposed to. Because they're trying and because they care.

But you're checking your phone under the table, still nothing.

Seonghwa leaves after dinner. "One more drink," Kallan says, linking her arm through yours. "Come on. It's your birthday. Let's go back to mine."

You should go home, crawl into bed, let this day end, but in reality, you don’t want to be alone.

She's got bottles of cheap Fireball and buzzballs on her desk, half-empty already, and she pours you both drinks in plastic cups.

"To you," she says, raising hers. "To surviving another year of bullshit."

You clink cups. The cinnamon-like drink burns going down, you fucking hate it. She pours herself another, then another.

You're nursing, barely sipping, but Kallan's already loose, laughing too loud at things that aren't funny. She's talking about some guy from her literature class, some drama with her roommate, and you're nodding along, half-listening, checking your phone every few minutes.

"You're doing it again," Kallan says suddenly.

You look up. "What?"

"Checking your phone." Her voice has an edge now. "Waiting for him."

Your stomach tightens. "I'm not—"

"You are." She takes another drink, longer this time. "You've been doing it all night. At dinner, in the car, right now. You're obsessed."

"K, I'm not—"

"He's not texting you." She says it flat, matter-of-fact. "He didn't text you all day. He's not gonna text you now."

The words hit harder than they should. "I know that," you say quietly.

"Do you?" She leans forward, eyes glassy. "Because you keep checking. Like if you look hard enough, he'll magically give a shit."

"Kallan."

"What?" She laughs, sharp and bitter. "You want me to lie? Pretend like this isn't pathetic?"

"You're drunk," you say carefully.

"So?" She pours herself another drink, spilling a little on the desk. "Doesn't make it less true."

"You knew what he was," Kallan continues, voice rising. "You knew the rules. You knew he was a player, you knew the risks, and you did it anyway."

"K, stop."

"Why?" She stands now, swaying slightly. "Because it hurts? Because you don't want to hear it?"

Your hands are shaking, you set your cup down before you drop it.

"You broke every fucking rule," she continues, words slurring slightly. "You risked your job, your reputation, everything you rebuilt—for what? For some guy who can't even text you on your birthday?"

Your vision blurs. "You told me to go for it. You encouraged me."

"Because I thought you'd be smart about it! I thought you'd have fun, keep it casual, not fall in love like some desperate—"

She stops herself, but the word hangs there anyway. Desperate, it stings

"You thought you were special," Kallan says, quieter now. "You thought he'd choose you. That you'd be different. But you weren't. You were just another girl who broke the rules and got burned."

The tears come before you can stop them.

"And now you're sitting here, crying over some guy who didn't even care enough to send you a text, and I'm supposed to—what? Feel bad for you? Throw you a party and pretend like you didn't do this to yourself?"

"Stop," you whisper.

"You're pathetic."

You stand, legs feeling unsteady, but you force yourself to move.

"Where are you going?" Kallan asks.

You don't answer, you grab your phone, your keys, and walk to the door.

"Wait—" She reaches for you, but you pull away.

"Don't," you say, voice cracking. "Don't touch me." You leave before she can say anything else. Before you break completely in front of her.

You make it a few doors down before your knees give out, and you have to lean against the wall, gasping for air.

Pathetic.

You did this to yourself.

And the worst part,is that she's right. You broke the rules, fell too hard, believed him when he said all in.

Now you're standing in a dorm hallway at 10pm on your birthday, alone, because the guy you loved didn't care enough to text you, and your best friend just called you pathetic to your face.

By 10, you're back in your room,and it all finally crashes down on you. He just didn't care. This is worse than Mingi.

Because Mingi, at least, tried. Mingi was honest.

Yeosang just…erased you. No explanation, no apology. No I'm sorry I've been distant. Just nothing. You're not even worth a text.

You're not even worth happy birthday.

You fall for people who are intense, who make you feel like you matter, who promise you everything, until the moment it's inconvenient. Then they leave.

They leave, and you let them. You fall for pretty words even if they come from a snake's lips.

I hate that I let him do this to me.

You hate that you broke your own rules for him. You don't know it yet, but fall camp will start up again. Yeosang will be back on campus, and you'll have to see him again.

You'll have to work with him. Tape his ankles, hand him water, pretend you're fine, and he'll act like nothing happened. Like you were never important enough to hurt.

Right now, all you know is that the guy who said he was all in didn't even show up for your birthday, and you're starting to think that says more about you than it does about him.

August comes too fast, way too fucking fast. You're not ready. You tell yourself you are, you spent the rest of summer working out, reading, forcing yourself to be okay, but the second you step onto the practice field for fall camp again, your chest tightens because he's already there.

Yeosang.

He's standing with the forwards now. Not the defenders, the forwards.

You blink, confused for a second, because that's not where he's supposed to be. He's a defender. That's his position, that's where you've always seen him.

But he's bulked up over the summer, shoulders broader, arms thicker, moving differently. One of the assistant coaches is talking to him, gesturing toward the goal, and Yeosang nods, focused.

He transferred positions.He's not in your zone anymore. Defenders are your responsibility, forwards have their own trainer. You don’t feel relieved about it in the slightest.

Practice starts, and you're assigned to the defenders like always. Seonghwa's there, giving you a small nod from across the field. I'm here. You're okay.

But your eyes keep drifting, to the forwards. To Yeosang. He's thriving. And you're standing on the sideline with a water bottle in your hand, watching him like some pathetic extra in his story.

Stop looking at him.

You force yourself to focus on the defenders. Do your job, but you can feel the idea of the decision forming in your chest.

That night, you're lying in bed, and you can't stop thinking about it. You'll barely see him, barely interact. It'll be easier this way.But the thought of not seeing him every day is unfathomable to you. What the fuck is wrong with me?

You grab your phone, pull up the staff schedule, and stare at it for a long time.You're the lead student staff, you have privileges. You can request position group changes if there's a valid reason. This is not a valid reason, but your fingers are already typing the email.

subject: position group transfer request

Hi Coach,

I'd like to request a transfer from defenders to forwards for this season. I think the change would help me develop a more well-rounded skill set and provide better support across the team.

Let me know if this works.

Thanks.

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you throw your phone across the bed and press your palms into your eyes.

I'm so fucking stupid.

The next morning, the transfer is approved. No questions asked, no kind of pushback. You're officially assigned to the forwards now.

Which means you're officially assigned to him. Seonghwa finds out within hours, he doesn't text, he calls. "What the fuck are you doing?" His voice is sharp.

You're walking to class, and you stop in the middle of the sidewalk. "What?"

"You transferred. To forwards."

Shit.

"Yeah. I just—wanted a change."

"Bullshit." He exhales hard. "You followed him."

"I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me." His voice softens. "He ghosted you. He didn't text you on your birthday. And you're following him to a different position group?"

You don't say anything.

"Why?" Seonghwa asks quietly. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"I don't know," you whisper.

"I know him," Seonghwa says. "He's my friend, and I love him, but I know him. He's not going to give you what you need."

"I'm not expecting anything—"

"Then why did you transfer?"

Seonghwa sighs. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do. But I'm choosing you over him. You know that, right? If it comes down to it, I'm choosing you."

Your throat tightens. "Hwa—"

"Just be careful again. Please."

Be careful, seems like that’s a common phrase he’s uses with me. Yet, I still don’t fucking listen.

The first practice with the forwards is awkward. Yeosang sees you walk up, and for a second, something flickers across his face.

"Hey," he says casually, like you're just another staff member.

"Hey."

That's it, that's the whole interaction. But over the next few days, something shifts, he starts testing you.

Little things at first. Holding eye contact a second too long when you hand him a water bottle. Brushing past you closer than necessary. Smiling at you in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

Then he starts talking to other trainers. Flirting with them. Laughing too loud, touching their arms, making sure you can see. He's trying to make me jealous, and it’s working. You're in the training room after practice, alone, restocking supplies, and he walks in.

"Need help?"

You don't look at him. "I'm good."

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. "You transferred," he says finally.

"Yup."

"Why?"

You set down the box you're holding and turn to face him. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah. It does."

You stare at him, and for a second, you see it. The same intensity from spring, the same pull. Don't do this. Don't fall for it again. But then he steps closer, and your breath hitches, and you know you're already fucked.

You can see exactly what's about to happen.  He's going to kiss you. You're going to let him. And then you're going to do this all over again, the hookups, the hollow feeling, the waiting for texts that won't come.

"I missed you," he says quietly.

He kisses you, and you fall into the rhythm of his lips all over again. You hook up after practices. In the training room, in your car, once in the equipment closet when no one else is around.

It's physical and hot, but it's hollow.

He doesn't text you between hookups. Doesn't ask how you're doing. Doesn't acknowledge you outside of when he wants something. By mid-fall, the whole team knows. One of the forwards, Yunho, asks Yeosang about it in the locker room, and Yeosang doesn't deny it.

"Yeah," he says casually. "We're…something."

Something. Not together, not dating. Just something.And when someone asks if you're his girlfriend, he shrugs. "She knows what this is."

Do I?

It's late fall when Yeosang corners you in the training room after everyone's cleared out. You're restocking ice packs, back turned.

You don't turn around. "What."

"Can we talk?"

"About what?"

He shifts his weight. You can feel him hesitating, "About…summer." Your hands freeze on the ice pack you're holding. You set it down slowly, turn to face him. "What about it?"

He exhales, runs a hand through his hair. "I just—I wanted to explain. I was under a lot of pressure, you know? Draft stuff, training, scouts watching everything I did. I didn't know how to handle it and I didn't want to…I don't know, hurt you more by being a mess."

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

"So you ghosted me instead."

"I didn't mean to—"

"You went radio silent for months, Yeosang."

He flinches at his own name. "I know. I fucked up. I just—I'm trying to say I'm sorry."

You stare at him. He looks like he actually believes this apology means something. "You're not just my water girl, you know that right?" he says, and the words hit you like a slap.

Water girl.

The term hangs in the air between you. It's what you were reduced to, a role, not a person.

Your jaw tightens. "Is that what you think this is?" Your voice is quiet, "You apologize and I'm supposed to what, forgive you? Feel better?"

"I—no, I just wanted you to know—"

"This apology isn't for me." You step closer, "This is for you. So you can feel less guilty about being a selfish asshole."

"That's not—"

"You couldn't even text me on my birthday."

He goes still. "You couldn't send me a single fucking text on my birthday, Yeosang. Not 'happy birthday,' not 'sorry I've been busy,' nothing. You forgot about me. And now you want to stand here and tell me you were under pressure?"

"I was—"

"Everyone's under pressure. That's not an excuse to treat people like they're disposable."

His hand reaches for your arm. "I didn't mean—" You pull back so fast he freezes mid-reach.

"Don't."

"I'm trying to."

"It's fine." Your voice is ice. "We're fine. It's done."

He blinks, confused. "What?"

"You apologized. I heard you. Now leave."

He nods slowly, turns, and walks out. The door clicks shut behind him.You stand there, alone in the training room, hands shaking. Your lungs feel small, like the ice pack you were just holding froze them.

You press your palms flat against the table, trying to ground yourself, but your hands won't stop shaking. He didn't apologize for ghosting you, he apologized for making himself uncomfortable. Your breath comes out shaky. You straighten up, wipe your palms on your shorts then your phone buzzes in your pocket. 

yeosang: i really am sorry

You stare at the text for a long moment then you delete it without responding.

You grab your bag, turn off the lights, and walk to your car. Your hands are still shaking when you grip the steering wheel.

He thought sorry would be enough.

Days pass. You don't text him. He doesn't text you. It feels like a real ending, the kind that sticks.

Then Thursday rolls around, and he's at practice like nothing happened. He's laughing with the guys, running drills, completely unbothered. He catches your eye during a water break. Holds it for a second longer than he should.

That's all it takes.

Later that night, your phone lights up, can we talk?

You know exactly what this is. You know you're going to say yes, and then you're going to let him back in, and then you're going to spend the next six months pretending this is what you want.

he moment you choose to repeat it all over again. Not because you believe him, not because you think it'll be different. But because the alternative, disappearing without him, becoming nothing again feels somehow worse.

You're complicit now. Spring semester is worse. You're exhausted, emotionally, physically, mentally.

Yeosang is still hooking up with you, but he's also flirting with other girls on campus. You see him at parties, talking to sorority girls, touching their waists, and it doesn't even bother you as much as it should.

You're numb to it.

Seonghwa stops asking how you're doing because he already knows the answer. Your grades slip. Not enough to fail, but enough.

You stop going to office hours, stop applying to grad schools with the same focus. You're just going through the motions.

You're lying in bed after another hookup, and Yeosang's getting dressed to leave.

"You straight?" he asks, pulling his shirt on.

"Mhm."

He pauses, looking at you. "You sure?"

"Yup."

He nods, kisses your forehead, and leaves. And you lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how you got here. Wondering when I stopped recognizing myself. Don’t we love college.

End of junior year comes, and you're burned out. Next year, he'll be a senior. A draft prospect. And you'll be traveling with the team, watching him, watching scouts take notes, watching him become everything he promised he'd be.

You'll realize that you were never actually part of the plan. You were just something to pass the time.

Senior year fall camp starts and you're dreading it.You show up early. Set up water stations, organize the medical kit, tape ankles for defenders even though you're not assigned to them anymore.

Scouts show up, men in polos and hey dudes standing, writing things down. Coaches hovering during drills, nodding to each other, talking in low voices. You're setting up coolers when one of the assistant coaches walks past and claps you on the shoulder.

"You're traveling this year, right?"

You blink. "What?"

"Away games. We've got you down for forwards staff. flights, hotels etcetera."

"Yeah. I—yeah, I'm traveling."

The first away game is a few states over. You board the plane in the afternoon, duffel bag with your name tag over your shoulder. The plane is small. You can hear coaches talking loudly, people saying bye to their loved ones over the phone. Yeosang's a few rows back, headphones in, staring out the window like he's the love interest in a rom-com.

This becomes the routine, though. Friday flights, hotel check-ins, pregame walk-throughs. Games under lights that feel more important than anything last season.

You do this every week. You know the flight attendants by name, know which hotels have the breakfast buffet with french toast, which stadiums have the worst visitor locker rooms that haven’t been cleaned, which cities you'll land in just long enough to sleep and leave.

Hate those ones the most. My life operates on their— no, his schedule now.

Classes become something you fit around travel, you do work on the plane, in the hotel lobby, wherever you can squeeze in the time. Your roommate stops asking where you're going because the answer is always the same.

—

It's a Saturday night in Missouri. The team won. Yeosang scored, and the locker room was chaos, music blasting, guys screaming, coaches grinning like they'd already won the big one.

Your phone buzzes while you're packing up the medical kit.

yeosang: 615

Don't go. You know how this ends.

He opens the door shirtless, hair still damp from the shower. Doesn't say anything and just pulls you inside and kisses you with so much urgency.

You're gasping into his mouth, trying to keep up, trying not to think about how this feels different.

Feels like he needs you.

He walks you backward to the bed, and you fall together. He's kissing your neck, your collarbone, whispering things he’s probably said to so many others.

"Missed you," he says against your skin. "Fuck, I missed you."

You ghosted me for months.

You don't say it, just pull him closer. After, you're lying in his arms, your head on his chest. "I don't know how to do this without you," he says suddenly. You freeze.

"What?"

"This. All of it." He exhales, and it sounds shaky. "The pressure, the scouts, the—everything. I don't know how to do it without you."

You just press your face into his chest and pretend you didn't hear the crack in his voice.

Morning comes too fast. You wake up to him already dressed, tying his shoes, checking his phone. He glances at you, and his expression is unreadable.

"You should probably head out before everyone's up," he says.

Not good morning, not about last night. Just you should leave. You nod and grab your clothes. He doesn't stop you, doesn't kiss you goodbye.You walk back to your room alone..

Two weeks later, you're on a flight to another away game. You're sitting near the back, reviewing notes, when Yeosang slides into the seat next to you.

He leans in, voice low. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Just—come on."

He stands, and you follow him to the back of the plane, past the bathroom, into a tiny storage area. He pounces on you immediately.

He presses you against the wall. You gasp, and he swallows the sound whole, kissing you, "Yeosang—"

"Shh."

His hands slide under your shirt, and you're losing it, losing track of where you are, what you're doing, why this is a terrible idea.

Footsteps, youou both freeze. Someone walks past, humming, and you hold your breath. Yeosang's hand is still under your shirt, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking. The footsteps fade. He exhales, pulls back, and grins. "That was close."

You stare at him. "Are you insane?"

He kisses you again, softer this time, and then he's gone, slipping back to his seat like nothing happened. You stand there, hands trembling, wondering what the hell you're doing, as always. 

Until you meet the most wonderful person, feeling the gaping hole Kallan left. Her name is Nona, and she's a sorority girl with a perfect smile and zero tolerance for dumbshit. She's the new hire, assigned to work with the forwards, and within a week, you're inseparable.

You're sitting in the training room one afternoon, and she's organizing tape while you ice someone's ankle.

"So," she says casually. "You and Yeosang." You nearly drop the ice pack.

"What?"

"Come on." She doesn't even look up. "Everyone knows."

"I'm not judging." She glances at you, and her expression is kind. "But he's not going to commit, you know that right?"

"What?"

"He's a draft prospect. His whole life is about to change. And you're—" She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "You're here. And he's leaving."

November comes, and he stops hiding it. He sits with you on the sidelines during warm-ups. Touches your back when he passes, finds your eyes across the field and smiles.

After a big win, he kisses you in the parking lot, in front of half the team.

You freeze, but he doesn't care. Just grins and walks away, leaving you standing there, heart racing, wondering what just happened.

The next day at practice, he barely looks at you.

I’m tired.

He'll hold your hand in the hotel lobby, then ignore you on the plane. Kiss you after a game, then act like you don't exist the next morning.

Nona notices. "You don't have to do this to yourself."

You don't answer. Because what would you even say?

—

It's late March when you find out.

You're in the training room when your phone lights up with notifications. Instagram, Twitter, the team group chat you muted months ago.

Congratulations to Kang Yeosang on being selected in the MLS Draft!

There's a photoof him in a suit, shaking hands with someone, holding up a jersey with his name on it. He's smiling wider than you've ever seen.

He didn't tell you, he’s just announcing even when draft picks happen the beginning of the year. You scroll through the comments. Teammates congratulating him, his family. Random people you don't know.

Then you see it, a comment from a girl you don't recognize. so proud of you babe <3

You set your phone down carefully, like it might explode. Your hands are shaking.He didn't tell me. You weren't part of this, you were never going to be part of this.

He got everything he wanted, the draft, the future, the girl who gets to comment babe on his posts, and you were just…here. Filling water bottles. Icing ankles, waiting.

You don't cry, you're too numb for it. He didn't choose you and he was never was going to.The rest of senior year happens in a blur. You show up to practice because you have to.

Yeosang leaves campus two weeks after the announcement. There's a team send-off dinner you don't attend. Seonghwa texts asking if you're okay. You say yes.

You see Yeosang one last time in the parking lot. He's loading boxes into his car, and you're walking to yours. He sees you, lifts his hand in a wave.

You wave back. That's it, no conversation. Goodbye, I guess.

You stop going to team events. Stop checking his Instagram, delete old texts without reading them. Your grades don't suffer because you throw yourself into studying. Anatomy, kinesiology, rehab protocols. If you're busy enough, you don't have to think.

Seonghwa brings you everything during finals week. Sits with you in the library without asking questions. Just exists next to you while you highlight textbooks and pretend you're fine.

"You're gonna be okay," he says one night.

Graduation creeps closer. You count down the days like a kindergartner waiting for summer break. April. May. The last game of the season, the last practice. The last time you have to walk into that training room and pretend none of it happened.

Then it's over, thank goodness.

Graduation happens on a Saturday in May. You walk across the stage, shake hands with people whose names you don't remember, smile for photos your mom takes.

Yeosang's not there, he's already gone, already started his new life in a city far away, with new and different people.

You don't cry at graduation, you don't feel much of anything. Few months later, you're in a new apartment in a new city with a new job at a different university. Different team, same smell of icey hot under your nails.

Late one night, when you can't sleep, you finally let yourself think about it.

About all of it.

—

dear diary, it's late and i can't sleep.

but that's my college experience ig. i became his water girl. the girl who existed for him, around him, because of him & i chose it every single time.

he ghosted me. kallan (she dropped out without a word btw) was right to call me pathetic. seonghwa warned me. i didn't listen. i'm older now and i still don't know how to want something without being terrified of it. i still build walls so high nobody gets in.

i don't want to be anyone's water girl anymore. not his, not anyone's.

i just want to be mine.

dear diary, i still question why in the hell was i transferred from football to soccer? i loveeeed working with the linebackers.

they were such a bubbly group (besides their neediness) i was pulled aside like i did something wrong, the staff knew i needed these credits for grad school. but nobody explained the real reason why i was switched, and that’s what pissed me off the most.

at the time, i thought it was a punishment. remember thinking i did something wrong. offend someone? but here’s the thing…after my frontal lobe development and all, i should be grateful for it. right? i didn’t understand a damn thing back then but i truly get it now.

i became reckless, breaking rules like it was in my nature, grades falling fast. someone i couldn’t recognize. i lied, abandoned things, things i swore i’d never do. REARRANGED MY WHOLE FUCKING LIFE.

the person i became after that transfer shaped my whole college experience and it still lingers with me from time to time. & i think that’s why im writing this all down, really trying to piece together how all this shit happened.

i was young and naive, but young me didn’t deserve that. but i let it happen anyway. over and over again. so time to lock in. im drunk asf ngl, my tears are about to ruin my notebook paper but who the fuck cares.

thank you to kq university athletic department for changing the trajectory of my entire life.

—

It was a Friday when you started your work study job. August, the start of football fall camp, the hottest time of year.

You were afraid, nervous, excited, all the feelings flooding, you could barely sleep the night before. The job orientation did nothing to calm you down.Your bosses’ motto was always “keep your head on a swivel.” You wanted to throw up on the conference room table right then and there.

There was no formal training, you were thrown to the wolves. You were put under an intern for guidance, she assigned you to the linebacker group, so you were always near her for any questioning. You were already on edge because the shirt given to you for the day was so ill-fitting, you were in front of over 130 people, and your boyfriend is celebrating his birthday today, hundreds of miles away from you.

The energy of football was so intense from the training room all the way outside to the field. You could smell the fresh paint on the grass, constant whistles from different directions, the excitement players felt getting ready for the season.

You watched as your group, the linebackers, warmed up. They were intimidating to say the least, you always had to be attentive to them.They drank water like camels, running across the field for bottle fill-ups was the majority of your practice.

Coming into freshman year, you chose biology as your major. A good entry for going into grad school for athletic training, this work study experience was important. Everyone knows this would look good on your resume after graduation, it would be dumb to jeopardize that in any way.

You keep up while internally crying inside. You learn jersey numbers, names, and you try to understand the full dynamic of your small group.They also try to learn you. You are the person who is their main point of contact if something goes wrong after all.

But there’s one linebacker that sticks out amongst the seven of them, one that makes being surrounded by men a little less overwhelming. He approaches you on the sideline, about two weeks into fall camp. You're not expecting attention, you've trained yourself to move through the space without taking up room, keeping your eyes on the water rack, on the next player who might need you. 

You position yourself at the edge of things, always ready to step back. Your whole purpose is to be efficient and invisible, and you've gotten good at it, shoulders slightly hunched, voice smaller when you speak, always the first to move out of the way when someone needs space.He smiles, it's big, genuine, you think. "Ready for the term to start?" He takes a bottle from your rack, squeezes some in his mouth, then on his cleats.

I hate when they do that. I literally have to go refill now.

"Uh, yeah, first year. Little nervous."

"Don't be, I've got you if you need anything." His dimples show, you take a peek at the back of his jersey, number ten.

You mentally run through your list. His last name is Choi. You can't remember which Choi, though. You nod as a thanks. It was odd because throughout the rest of practice, he would find every excuse to talk to you when players were supposed to be focused. Every practice, he became a regular presence, you eventually figured out which Choi he was, San.

You can tell he amped up his flirting, you were fresh meat to fall camp eyes. He started to compliment your clothes. Your work uniform was school shirts and shorts, with some beat-up sneakers. So impressive, really your best fit.

You look a mess most of the time due to working in the heat all day. Hair plastered to your face, pit stains, shirt sticking to you.Despite all of this, practice became something you were looking forward to in the mornings. Looking forward to seeing San.

Were my boyfriend's worries valid? I haven't brought him up once since I've been here. He's going through his own fall camp, nah, he's fine.

The fall term was going to officially start soon, which meant the first game was coming up. The energy became even more real as the date got closer.Your stress also skyrocketed, Mingi claimed his first game would be a week after your school's, so he was going to fly into town to watch you work since he had the free time.

Seeing him throughout the semester would be scarce, as he went to a different school and had a hectic student-athlete schedule.You were so scared for the week leading up to gameday. Mingi sat in the row closest to the sideline. He had a perfect view of you and the inner workings of you and the other staff.

You spotted him before he spotted you, and you knew he was coming, but it still made your stomach drop.Your shoulders tense the moment you see him in the stands. You force yourself to keep moving, keep working, but your body knows he's watching. You catch San's eye across the field and something in your chest tightens. He's watching you watch Mingi. 

You are behind your group for their pregame warm-ups, as you do a quick turnaround to wave up to Mingi, San approaches you for water.San immediately clocks it. He doesn't say anything in passing, just drinks, drops it back into your rack, and runs off to join the others.

I think forgetting I have a boyfriend is about to backfire on me.

The game finally commences, you stand for three hours, running up and down the sideline. Little glances up to Mingi now and again.Working your first game, you feel such a rush, you don't try to decipher any emotions from Mingi or San, if you don't pay attention, you will get plowed down.

San makes a really good play, and you realize you clap a little too hard. Immediately make yourself busy, know that’s how rumors start, and it’s only your first year.

KQ takes the win, everyone in the stands comes to the field to congratulate their loved ones, and more. This also included Mingi coming down to greet you. He grabs a hold of your waist to spin you around. He has bulked up since last seeing him, football body and all. Dyed his hair too, dark blue, not sure of the sudden change.

You smile up at him, move some of the hair out of his face. The dork you’ve been with since junior year of high school, your rock, your bestie.

I hate breaking your heart.

“Baby, you worked your ass off. Wasn’t even paying attention to the game.” You laugh, the one that makes his smile go even wider. “I’m glad you came to see me in action.”

“Me too, wish you were my trainer. Your group is lucky to have you.”

You tap his arm playfully, you know it’s a loaded sentence, you don’t know if that weight holds the same for him.“Before I catch my flight tomorrow, wanna grab some food? Sleep in a hotel bed instead of a dorm for the night?”

“Yea–yes. I’d like that.” You’re hesitant, the air has shifted, the smell of gatorade powder is filling your nose, but the man in front of you is taking up your line of sight.

That night was filled with giggles, memories, moans, and everything that you wouldn’t get to experience with him until the fall semester was over.

The fall semester was hard but rewarding, you’d love your job and the people you worked with. But your grades and your relationship were tanking in front of your eyes. He is out of state, and I’m here.

You’d been doing the long distance, but it only got harder as time progressed between you. When he calls, you don’t have much to say. You’d try to tell him about work, about school, your day, but it all felt so small compared to what he was dealing with. I didn’t realize it yet, but I was already checked out.

Finals were a bitch to go through. You were so ready for winter break, just needed a moment to decompress. But you were still confused about the status of your relationship. Winter break went by fast, you went through the motions of catching up on sleep. Mingi wasn’t able to come visit you until spring break.

You almost don’t recognize him. He exudes a completely different energy when he shows up at your single dorm with flowers and that smile that holds the world.

You're in pjs and slippers, awakened from your nap after taking a study break. You’re close to being on academic probation, and you’re trying to be better.

You don’t even get a word out before he starts apologizing. “I’m sorry. Just fucking sorry for putting you on the back burner. You’re a priority, football shouldn’t have changed that.” Everything feels empty. His words feel empty. I feel empty.

Fall semester was months of you growing without him. Something in you has shifted. You don’t know if it’s for the best or the worst. But when he leans down to kiss your unchapped lips, crust still in your eyes…you don’t feel a thing.

It feels like saying honey I’m home! When it’s only your name on the lease.

You kiss him back, because you’re trying. Really trying to understand the mess of feelings you found yourself in. You love Mingi, that was never the issue. He was easy to love, to fall into. You spend the whole break together. Favorite movies, home-cooked meals that give you food poisoning, his hands on every part of your body.

Making up for the months that you’ve both missed together, but the disconnect is still there. The elephant in the room that no one is acknowledging.

You’re having surface-level conversations, the yearning in his eyes is gone.Your eyes match his. You don’t know if he can tell because he still proceeds to talk about the future, but it’s his future.

You’re both still young-minded, ambitious, navigating life despite him being by your side and being your first for everything. When Mingi talks about his plans, where he wants to go, you realize you have no idea what your place is.

You ask questions, be attentive, trying to grasp at straws that are inevitably going to bend.What are we really building toward? You want to be excited about him, like you were in high school, you want the puppy love that used to gush out of you like a river.

But all you can think about is being back on the field with players, the energy, the people. Finding yourself outside of Mingi. The whole week, you’re running on fumes.

On his last night before flying back out, he pulls you close in your car. It’s quiet, no one else around.The only thing accompanying you is the birds, who don’t notice that the sun hasn’t risen yet. It’s starting to feel like nails on a chalkboard instead of a melody.

“I miss you,” Mingi whispers, as if you’re not right beside him. Like he’s telling a ghost. And shit, maybe I am one.

He leans in to kiss you, and you freeze. Your body doesn’t reciprocate, your hands don’t go to the nape of his neck, your eyes stay open, you don’t give him entrance. His lips feel wrong, not bad. Just wrong, and he knows it.

His cap hides some of his features, but you can see the realization and hurt etched all over his face. He pulls back, puts his hands back in his lap, faces the windshield instead of you.

“What’s wrong?”

You’re trying not to let the water works show as you explain—or try to explain. Hell, you don’t even know what to explain. It sounds like patheticness coming out of your mouth, you feel like a bitch. You fidget with your fingers, mess with the seatbelt, drink out of a 3-day-old water bottle you find in the door.

Everything but looking him in the eye. “I don’t—don’t know. I just. I can’t.”

He sighs, doesn’t push for further explanation, you see his neck and ears getting red, the outside lamp light shining on the side of him.

You can tell he’s getting emotional, he’s about to cry, and you hate it. You hate it. I fucking hate it.

You’re the reason he’s crying, you’re breaking him, but you’re breaking yourself while trying to stay. He leaves on that note, doesn’t say a thing else. When he leaves, you feel relief more than sadness.

Being back at school, with him away, everything turns upside down. You stop waiting for his calls, you stop checking if he’s texted. You make yourself busier than you already are. Chem labs are kicking your ass, your grades have become your main priority. Your work study is more lax during the spring, but you spend half your days there.

Everything else feels more urgent than keeping a relationship that feels like it’s destined to fail at this point. You need to graduate, need to be okay. I need to fix myself.

You don’t break up with him yet, it’s going to hurt, you know it is. So you decide to just stop trying. You spend the rest of the spring semester fixing everything except your relationship as summer break approaches.

 Then Summer comes, and Mingi doesn’t give up, he keeps trying. He continues to call constantly, leaving long messages on your voicemail, plans about wanting to see you, how much he misses you. You go through the motions because ending things feels harder than just existing in the space you’ve created.

You agree to hang out, agree to meet up. Maybe seeing him again will fix whatever broke inside me. But when he shows up at your house, you feel dread instead of excitement. You feel the urge to perform instead of just being yourself.

He talks about how his scholarship isn’t covering his tuition, talks about transferring schools again, maybe taking a break, and coming back home. You nod, sit there, pretend to care. I should care, but I don’t. Why don’t I CARE?

You both end up at dinner, conversation fizzles out. He’s trying hard to make it feel normal, asking about any summer classes, friends, plans for the fall semester.

Your answers are all short, check your phone at the table more than you should. He reaches for your hand across the table, and you let him take it.

You're holding a stranger’s hand. This is so so fucked up.

You drive back to his place and sit in the car for a minute, engine running, ac blasting. He’s looking at you like he’s waiting on something, a kiss, a sign you still want this. You can’t give him that anymore.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say. It feels like the first honest thing you’ve said in months.

Confusion is all over, like he thought he was fixing things by going the extra mile. “What do you mean?”

You gesture between you, “This–us. I can’t keep this facade going.”

“Facade?” His voice cracks a little, you hate it when it does that. Makes you want to almost take everything you said back. “What did I do wrong?”

Fuck.

“It’s not you,” you start, you know how fucking cliche it sounds. It’s the most common breakup sentence ever created. But it’s the truth.

“I just–I don’t feel the same way anymore. I tried, really did. But I can’t get myself back to where we were.”

He’s quiet, thinks for a bit, stares at his hands that were just holding yours. “Is there someone else?”

“No.” There’s no one else, truly, just the absence of him.

“Then what changed?” His voice is strained, desperate. “I can fix it. Whatever it is, I can–”

“You can’t fix this. Fix me.” You’re trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re not the same people we were in high school. I’m not the same, and I don’t think I love you the way I’m supposed to anymore.”

I don’t love you the way you deserve.

Tears are pouring from his face, he doesn’t bother to wipe them. “I love you,” he says through sobs like it will change everything.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m so sorry.”

He opens the car door, doesn’t look at you. “I don’t understand this. I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t either.”

He gets out, slams the door harder than needed, your Ghibli ghost shakes on the rearview mirror. You sit in the car for a long time after he’s gone.

You wait for the guilt to flood, the tears, for the crushing weight of what you just did. But it doesn’t come. There’s lightness instead of grief. 

Like the feeling you got when you discovered stepping on a crack didn’t really break your mother’s back.

I broke up with my first love, and I feel okay. I feel fine.

You call your friend, you’d recently been getting close to in chem lab, Anore. “I just broke up with him.”

You tell her, trying to sound sad, trying to sound like you’re “supposed” to.

“You okay, hun?” She’s all concerned, knows by the brief rants you’d go on while trying to get your titrate perfect.

“Yeah, I think I am.” For once, you sound like you really mean it.

She offers to come over, bring ice cream, movies, all the breakup essentials. You tell her you just need good sleep.

You don’t sleep. You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation, still waiting for that regret.

Will someone ever get you as he did? But the regret never comes.

Summer goes on, you spend more time with Anore, friends from other classes. You get in the gym, read so many books, and get a better sleep schedule.

You spend the summer slowly rebuilding yourself.

I don’t miss him.

When your mom asks how Mingi is, you tell her about the breakup. She looks sad for you, asks if you’re alright. You explain that you’re fine, but you know she doesn’t believe you.

By the time August rolls back around, you’re excited about fall. Not trying to move on, not forcing yourself to be okay, you just are.

Fall camp arrives again. You’re single for the first time in years, you show up to practice without the thought of a relationship hanging over your head.

You bought new sneakers for the season, got work clothes that actually fit. The small things that feel important, like you’re starting fresh.

You don’t know it yet, but you’re about to meet someone who will make your Mingi era feel like a lifetime ago.

I’m ready, I think. Fully ready.

And when the director of sports med pulls you aside during the second week of fall camp to tell you about a transfer from football to soccer, from the linebackers to a different world, you’re shocked but take it in stride.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

They didn't sugarcoat why you're being moved.

"You're being moved," clipboard in his hand, not looking up. "Football's not working out. Coaches have flagged some concerns—you're becoming a distraction, and frankly, there's been chatter about 'optics.' We need to manage this before the issue gets bigger."

He finally looks at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach drop. "The linebacker situation didn't help," he continues, "but it's bigger than that. Staff's been noticing patterns. You're good at your job, but you're also…visible. And visibility with players is a liability we can't afford right now."

You think about all the times you caught coaches watching you, the way conversations would stop when you walked into certain rooms. You thought you were paranoid. Guess not.

A distraction…right. How about telling the players to grow the fuck up?

But then he leans back in his chair, and his tone shifts. 

"We have a responsibility to maintain professional boundaries," he says, and it sounds scripted, like he's said this before about other girls. "Soccer's a better fit. Bigger group, more structure, less…individual attention."

Less focus on you, less opportunity for you to become a problem they have to manage.

"You'll transfer effective immediately. Defenders, back line. They'll be expecting you."

Football was fun, you won’t lie. It was loud, chaotic, and easy to disappear into. But by the end of freshman year, it started to feel suffocating.

I had to constantly prove I wasn’t there just to flirt.

Soccer feels like a reset. The first day with the defenders is very…very different.

They are loud as fuck, but in a good way. The linebackers were more quiet, more in their own head most of the time. The defenders were the opposite, constantly talking, trolling each other, laughing between drills.

You stand on the sideline with your rack of six water bottles and a towel thrown over your shoulder, watching them run through formations. They move with so much cohesion, like they’ve been playing together for years.

One of them is lean, a little tall, with longer dark hair put up in a ponytail. He glances over at you during a water break. He doesn’t say anything, just nods at you, then jogs back to the line.

Okayyyyyy, that’s definitely new.

You’re used to being ignored or hit on. The casual nod feels normal, like he’s a regular, sane person. Like you’re just part of the staff, as you should be.

It’s refreshing.

You're back where you belong. Hands filled with water bottles, eyes down, existing in the margins.

His name is Seonghwa.

You don’t learn it until about the third or fourth practice, you can’t exactly remember. When he walks over during a break and asks, “You’re new, right?”

“Transferred from football,” you say, handing him a water bottle. “Sophomore.”

Sophomore? What the fuck is wrong with you? He didn’t ask???

“Ahhh.” He takes a long drink, sweat trickling down his neck, wipes his mouth off. “ Yeah, we just got a new transfer too. Keeps to himself, though. I’m Hwa. Well, Seonghwa, but everyone calls me Hwa.”

“Cool. I’m–”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts, not in a weird way. More like he just truly already knows. “You worked with the linebackers last year, saw you around.”

Duh, football and soccer do use the same training room.

You didn’t think anyone really paid that much attention, you were always all over the place, it seemed.

“Oh well, yes, that was me.”

He nods, looks at you for a second as whistles and cleats scuffing up the dirt become background noise. “You like it better here?”

“So far.”

“Good–I’m glad.” He grins, his smile is pretty–it’s genuine. “Defenders are way more fun than the mouth breathing linebackers. Trust.”

You chuckle, then he’s gone, jogging back to the line before you can properly respond.

Every practice, Seonghwa finds a reason to talk to you. Not in a flirty way, just platonic, like he’s curious about you.

He asks about your classes, your major, what you’re doing after practice. It’s small talk that doesn’t feel forced, it makes practice bearable.

One day, he’s sitting on the bench during a water break, and you’re refilling your water bottles at the water cow nearby. He glances over and does a double-take.

“Wait—are you in orgo chem 433?

You blink, “mhm, why?”

“I’m in that class.” He laughs, shaking his head. “How did I not notice you?”

“It’s a big lecture hall,” you say. “I’m super early so I can find a seat in the back.”

“I sit in the middle rows. We should sit together.”

Really? Is that a good idea? No fraternization and all.

“Sure. If you wanna.”

“Cool.” He stands, stretches. “I’ll save you a seat so you don’t lose any more sleep by showing up early.”

He stands by those words.

Sitting with Seonghwa in class changes things. You have someone to compare notes with, someone to complain about the professor’s way of explaining molecular geometry, someone to go to the dining hall with after lecture.

He’s easy to be around, no pressure, no expectations. Just his friendship.

I didn’t realize how much I needed this.

After a class, you’re walking across campus together, and he just asks, “You doing okay? Like for real for real okay?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“Just checking in with you. Never hurts.”

You think about Mingi, that relationship, the relief after it ended. “I think so.”

That’s good enough for him, he doesn’t push. “You deserve that.”

Do I, though? You don’t know how to respond, so you just smile.

The defenders are growing on you. They probably came out of the womb screaming, but it’s the good kind of loud. Playful and supportive.

You start learning their names, their personalities, the ones who prefer pickle juice over gatorade. The ones who come to you first to have their fingers and ankles taped.

There’s one guy who’s always quiet. Built, beautiful arms and calves, brownish hair. He doesn’t talk much during practice, but focuses on drills with such intense energy.

You’ve seen how he lingers in the back, observes more than anything. Doesn’t engage with the group the way the others do.

No clue who that is.

October, you’ve found your rhythm. Classes with Seonghwa, practice, study sessions in the library. Your grades are improving, sleep is so much better. Your screentime has gone down, your phone doesn’t consume you anymore.

I’m doing okay.

After practice, Seonghwa walks you to your car. It’s become a ritual, he parks near you every day

“You coming to the game this weekend?”

“Um, yes. I’m working it.”

He leans against your car, arms crossed. “You should come to the team dinner after. The bar that’s close to campus.”

“I don’t know..” You hesitate, “I’m just supposed to be staff.”

“So? You’re part of the team. We’d be dehydrated and breaking ankles without you.” He grins, “C’monnn. It’ll be fun.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll come.”

He pushes off your car, pats your head, and starts walking towards his. “See you tomorrow.”

The game is so intense. You’re on the sideline, doing your job with ease. Water bottles, towels, keeping track of substitutions, helping with minor tape jobs. But you’re also watching, actually paying attention to the game in a way you never did with football.

Your group is fast, coordinated, and aggressive. Moving like a unit, it makes you proud in a way, even though you do very little in their capacity of competing.

Seonghwa is in the middle of it all, calls out plays, directs the traffic. He’s a leader in many ways, the kind of player everyone looks to when things get crazy.

Then there’s mr quiet guy.

He’s playing today. On the field, he’s not quiet at all. He’s very vocal, commanding. You find yourself fumbling with bottles, watching him more than you should.

You still don’t know his name, you still don’t ask.

During a water break in the half, you’re refilling bottles on the sideline when you glance up. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, catching his breath, and his eyes are already on you. Not scanning the sideline, you. You shake it off, tell yourself you imagined when he looks away, but now apparently you don’t know how to hold bottles.

The team ends the game with a win, which makes for a chaotic team dinner. The defenders group takes over half the bar, shoves tables and barstools together, order so much food.

Seonghwa saves a stool for you, and you sit down feeling a little out of place, but still feel welcomed. The quiet guy is sitting at the far end of the shoved-together tables. He’s talking and laughing.

First time I’ve seen the guy smile.

You look away before he notices you staring.

Except, the whole time, he was tracking your movement throughout the crowd without you noticing him first. Seonghwa nudges you. “You good?”

You grab a wing from the many baskets that were ordered. ‘“Yeah. I’m enjoying myself!”

Spring season is um…unique. The schedule is more chill, but more training as far as strength and conditioning goes.

Your boss asks if you can pick up extra shifts, you say yes without thinking. You need the money, and honestly, you need the distraction.

That’s when Kallan shows up. She’s the new student hire, assigned to work with the forwards, offense, opposite of you.

First day, she walks onto the field, wearing oversized glasses, messy bun. You know, I just rolled out of bed look.

“Hey,” she says, dropping her medkit next to yours. “I’m Kallan. They said I’d be shadowing you?”

“Um, likely just shadowing me during setup, we will be on opposite sides of the field once practice actually starts.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

You show her how to set up the water station, how to stay out of the way during drills, track players who need special attention. She picks it up quickly, asks good questions, and doesn’t complain about the early mornings.

By the end of the week, you grab lunch together after practices, and by the second week, she’s texting you memes at 2am. She quickly became your best friend.

“You need to go out more,” she says one day, sprawled on the grass during a break. “Like, actually go out, get cute. Not just team dinners.”

“I do go out.”

“Studying with Hwa doesn’t count.”

You throw a towel at her, she laughs as she rolls over to dodge it. “I’m serious–We’re in college, we gotta live a little.”

She’s not wrong, you’ve been so focused on fixing grades, staying out of boy trouble, that you forgot what it feels like to just exist and have fun.

Spring break comes and goes, you go home for a few days, sleep in your old bed, eat your mom's cooking after living on fast food. But you’re weirdly relieved when you get back to campus.

After break, everyone’s rusty, drills are sloppy, coaches yelling a lot more than usual. The feeling of staring starts. You’re organizing tape and supplies when Kallan nudges you hard enough to make you drop a roll.

“Ow, what–”

“Don’t look now, but that guy. Been starin’ at ya for like five minutes straight.”

“He’s not—”

“He is. I'm watching him watch you right now. It’s actually kinda intense.”

You roll your eyes, don’t look. But you feel your face heat up, and you focus hard on rewrapping the tape you just dropped.

“Ok ok, he’s looking away now,” Kallan whispers, “but girl, he was looking.”

One afternoon practice you’re refilling bottles when someone taps your shoulder. You turn around, it’s him, mr quiet guy.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is warm and deep, smooth like honey. “You’re back.”

“Uh…Yeah. Break’s over and all.”

"How was it?"

Is this dude actually making small talk….?

"Boring, nothing exciting. Yours?"

He shifts his weight, glances away for a second like he's deciding what to say. "It was fine. Quiet." He pauses, "Needed the break, I guess."

You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks back at you, assessing."Glad to be back, though. The field's been boring without you."

He smiles, and it's the same smile you saw at the team dinner, but it's in your face now, and it makes your stomach do something weird.

“I’m Yeosang, by the way.”

“I know,” you say, even though you didn’t know until this very moment.

He laughs, “Do you?”

“I mean—I do now.”

He grabs a freshly refilled bottle from your hand, fingers brushing yours for half a second. “See you.”

“Kang Yeosang back on the line now!”

He drops the bottle on the ground as he sprints away. Kallan appears next to you, handing you the dropped bottle.

She has the most sinister smile on her face. “What was that?”

“Dunno.”

“He’s never talked to you before.”

“Wholeheartedly aware of that, K.”

“Now he’s what, introducing himself? After a whole semester?”

“Guess soooo.”

She squirts water on your shoe. “He’s cute.”

“K–”

She puts her hands up in defense, “I’m just saying!”

Hey Siri, play Don’t by Bryson Tiller.

But the talking doesn’t stop, over the next weeks Yeosang had become a chatterbox. Mindless things, really, but it’s consistent.

Then the hugging starts. Not full hugs, quick side hugs that seem universal for every d1 college athlete. The one that shouldn’t mean anything.

But it does mean something when he does it, he lingers, and when he pulls away, he’s always smiling.

Kallan notices it. “He’s def into you, girly.” She says after watching him jog away.

“He’s not.”

“He is.”

“He’s just being friendly, just like the rest of them.”

“Friendly.” She snorts. “Right, because all the other guys hug you like that.”

They don’t, and I know that.

You’re packing up after practice when your phone buzzes.

unknown: what’s up it’s yeosang

unknown: got ur # from one of the guys, hope that’s cool

He got my number without asking. Kallan leans over your shoulder, reads the texts and squeals like a kid in a candy shop.

“Oh my god!!!”

“Shut up.”

“You have to respond.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” But you do respond, feels rude to leave him hanging.

you: hey, yeah that’s fine

yeosang: u doing anything after practice tmr?

you: depends, why?

yeosang: wanna grab food?

Kallan is about to jump out of her clothes, watching this unfold. “Say yes. Say yes.”

“I don’t know—”

“Just do it.”

You hesitate. This is a bad idea, know it is. There are rules about this, fraternization policies, staff–player boundaries, all the things written in your contract, and the things your boss drilled into your head when you started.

But…

you: sure.

You’re a mess. You packed clothes for after practice, for lunch since you have a break before your classes start for the day. You put so much thought into the outfit, you have no clue why.

Kallan laughs at you as you explained your whole morning and she can see clothes spilling out of your bag.

“Relax, it’s just food.”

It’s not.

Practice dragssss. Every time Yeosang looks at you, your stomach does somersaults, every time he smiles you’re about mix up player meds.

Oh shit. Let’s not mix pain meds with laxatives ma’am.

When it’s over, he walks up to you, still in his practice stuff, hair damp with sweat.

“Gonna shower fast and change. You’ll be ready?”

“Yeah. Let me just—”

“Take your time.”

You grab your bag, drag Kallan to the staff room to change, and so she can help you. She gives you a thumbs up in the mirror once you both figure it out and gives you that knowing look.

You end up at a small family-owned burger joint off campus, which lots of students frequent. He orders a burger, you order a salad, and for a few minutes, it feels normal.

Then out the blue he says, “so what do you want?”

“Huh?”

“Like, what are you looking for? With this?” He gestures between the two of you.

Ohhhh, wow, okay, yeah, totally.

“Um–I wasn’t really looking for anything.”

“But if you were?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know if this is a good idea. The whole…staff—player thing.”

“I’m aware.” He leans back, spreads his legs, shoes slightly tap yours under the table. Looks at you, eyes hiding under his hair. “But I’m asking anyway.”

So many damn but’s.

"Why?"

He glances away for a second, jaw tightening like he's deciding how much to say. He's testing whether you're worth the risk. "Because I want to know."

You take a breath, a visible exhale, goosebumps rising on your arms. You’re trying not to fidget. “I don’t do casual. If that’s what you’re asking.”

He smiles, and it’s so perfect. “Neither do I.”

“I’m interested in you despite what the fuck the contracts says.”

“I–”

He puts his hand up, pauses you. “You don’t have to have an answer now, just think about it.”

I’m already thinking about it.

The rest of the meal is easier with that sitting in the back of your mind. When he drops you off at your car, he doesn’t hug you, just shoves his hands into his pockets, looking at you like you’re as pretty as a winning number on a scoreboard.

“What are you doing this weekend?” He asks.

“Probably nothing.”

He smiles again. “Text me.” Then he opens your door for you and leaves without another word.

You sit in your car, hands on the steering wheel. Look how disheveled you look in your rearview mirror. Your phone buzzes.

K: tell me everything, neowwwww

You laugh, you’re so beside yourself right now. You don’t really know what you’re doing, but you know you’re going to say yes.

The spring game finally comes around. Families everywhere, recruits touring, coaches barking like it’s a conference game.

You’re running all over the place, trying to not to trip over equipment bags scattered across the sidelines.

Yeosang plays well, you watch his every move. How his calves pulse when he pivots, the way he wipes sweat with his jersey, the way he adjusts his shorts, or bends over to retie his cleats.

Fucking weirdo, stop staring.

The final whistle blow, you pack up as usual, folding stuff, breaking down the rest areas, shoving ice bags into coolers. Most of the team is gone, heading to the locker room or meeting family in the stands.

Yeosang lingers.

He’s standing near the bench, unwrapping his fingers, talking to one of the forwards. His eyes keep flicking toward you, you feel it every time.

When you finish loading the last cooler onto the golf cart, he walks over.

“Hey.”

You look up. He’s so close, you see the grass stains on his shorts and legs, scratches on his arms, sweat still dripping from the tips of his hair.

“Hey yourself.”

He grins, pulls out his phone, types, shows you the screen, and it’s an address.

“Come hang.” He pockets his phone, starts walking backward toward the locker room. “Stop thinking so hard, just come. I’ll be there in like an hour.”

You stare out onto the field, everything is a recipe for disaster.

you: yo yeosang just invited me to hang tn, wtf wtf.

K: BITCH GO. im busy with my own situation rn but text me after

You shake your head, get on the golf cart, and start driving towards the equipment shed. You try to rush so you have enough time to shower and change beforehand.