Z-O

You didn’t answer right away. Mostly because you were trying to calculate the odds of getting away with a perfectly executed slap, but also because your brain had short-circuited for point-three seconds trying not to stare at his mouth. "What are you doing here, Riki?" You roll your eyes as you toss your pen onto the notebook, letting out a light plop at it hit the thick paper. 

The guy shrugged with a smirk on his face. "Just printing out some things. I should be asking you, little one. Don’t you have a speed bump to climb?" He pouted his lips mockingly as he reached his hand out to pat your head. 

You swat his hand off, jaw tight. "Don’t touch me."

He laughs—low, unbothered, amused. "You always say that, but your eyes say otherwise."

"My eyes say ‘I wish you were dead,’" you snap, narrowing them.

Riki pulls out the chair across from you without asking. Of course. Because asking would require basic manners. "You know," he says, lounging like he owns this library, "your notes are cute. All that rainbow color-coding and tiny handwriting. Adorable. Almost makes me forget you’re my competition."

You stare him down. "You can’t compete where you don’t compare, Riki."

He clicks his tongue. "There it is." He shook his finger. "That little bite." He nodded with a sarcastic smile as he took one of your pens—your orange pen—and pointed it at you. Almost as if he was warning you of something. "It could almost make me think you want me."

At this point, your entire mood was ruined. The cute little setup you had curated for yourself wasn’t even cutting it anymore. You stood up with a frustrated sigh, gathering your things to put away. "I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than ever give you that impression." You snatched your pen from his grasp.

Riki blinked, taken aback for half a second. Then he started laughing. Full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh.

"You’re seriously unhinged," he said, grinning as he watched you shove your notebook into your bag. "Like, clinically."

"And you’re seriously delusional if you thought this was a bonding moment," you shot back, slinging your tote over your shoulder. He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head like he was settling in for a show. "Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that, you looked so cozy before I got here."

"I was until you got here."

He furrowed his brows, feigning pity and sympathy. "Sorry,"

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly hit the back of your skull. "I swear to God, I would genuinely pay to never see your face again."

"Well…" a new voice cut in smoothly from behind you. Low, warm, like melted honey and clean-cut authority.

You froze.

"…you won’t see much of anything if you two don’t get some sleep soon."

You turned slowly, and sure enough—standing in the moonlight like a poetic warning—was Dr. Yang. Dressed in all black, button-down rolled at the sleeves, coffee in hand, and an unreadable look in his eyes.

"Professor," you breathed, your voice unintentionally softer.

"Didn’t expect to find two of my brightest students sparring after hours," he said, gaze flicking briefly to Riki and then back to you. "You alright?"

Riki, still in the chair like a parasite, answered for you. "She’s fine. We were just chatting."

You gave him a hard side-eye. "Yeah…chatting."

Dr. Yang smiled faintly. It was subtle, but something about it made your stomach dip—like he already knew more than he let on. "Hm. You should head to your dorms. It’s late."

You opened your mouth to respond, but Riki beat you to it again. "She likes the quiet at night. Says it helps her focus."

The way Dr. Yang’s brows lifted just slightly made your ears burn. Riki grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

"I’ll walk you out," your professor said, voice gentle but final.

And for once, Riki had no snarky comeback. He just watched you collect yourself, his smirk softening into something unreadable.

You followed the professor toward the exit, not looking back at all. Though Riki was still there, watching. Watching you follow him like a moth to a flame, dog on a leash. With wide eyes and a gentleness that he felt he could never get out of you. And he watched.

Eyes narrowed. Jaw tight.

And for the first time since the beginning of this interaction, he wasn’t smiling.

—

Riki and you had this unrelenting rivalry going since the beginning of your first year at university. Sharing the same major, it started off as a slight nod of respect. A silent acknowledgment of the hard work you had both put into every assignment. The competition was friendly, nothing intense until you both found that your GPAs were entirely too close. Then the casual ‘hey, how’d you do on the socio exam?’ stopped being out of curiosity and started to be firmly interrogative.

When he showed you his A over your A-, you decided it was war.

To say you were envious of him was an understatement, severely understated. In some strange way, you wanted to be him. You wanted to be attractive. You wanted to be well-liked by your peers. You wanted to get the invites to the parties and have a boatload of friends. You wished that you could study for like thirty minutes a day then just ace everything.

But fortunately, you weren’t ugly at all. But every part of you felt so. You didn’t wear amazing clothes, usually opting for the hoodie and jeans or shorts. A cute, form-fitting long sleeve on a good day. Guys never looked at you. Not that you equated your worth to the attention you got from men. But sometimes you wouldn’t mind if a guy stopped you, if you got a double-take even. You wore light makeup, finding it cute but far too lazy to commit to a full beat. You idolized and respected the people that did though because you never thought you could. Feeling like a fish out of water when you would look in the mirror. So blush, mascara, and some lip gloss is your go-to! 

You had no friends. With all—if not most—of your time spent locked in the library or dorm. The social life that you promised yourself upon high school graduation just hadn’t found you yet. You hated crowds and your social battery depleted quickly, still you tried and tried to make friends. Going to club fairs and following classmates on social media didn’t help—they never followed back. Going out to bars that your classmates frequented in hopes of befriending someone all fell through as well. Every random person you approached looked at you like you were something on the bottom of their shoe. Like you were crazy for even trying to talk to them. But of course, Riki didn’t have any of these issues. He commanded every room he walked into with minimal effort. Riki was bewitching. Guys and girls either wanted to be with him or be him—shit, maybe both. Nonetheless, he was funny, outgoing, ingenious, and just such an interesting person. 

To everyone else. 

He made fun of you, picked on you, patronized you, ensured that no matter what he never let you win. He never gave you the one-up nor did he let you live it down when something of his turned out better than whatever you did.  You resented him and hoped that with every part of you that he would either drop dead or fail at something entirely so you could finally rub it in his face. Just once. Even with that, you hated that he was the only person you interacted with on this campus. Yet somehow you didn’t want to let it go considering that he was the closest, yet furthest thing you had to a friend here.

Riki was all you had.

—

Every Monday and Thursday, you had your Theology 101 class with Professor Jungwon Yang. You didn’t care for Religious Studies that much but your school required it for some reason. Something about them wanting its students to be well-rounded which, fair enough? You show up to class early like usual, around twenty minutes. It gives you time to settle in and make some progress on some miscellaneous things for other classes. But just as you were typing up an outline for your Media Ethics paper, a sudden voice broke through the silence.

"Oh—you’re early!"

You startled so hard your laptop nearly slid off the desk. Looking up, your eyes locked with said Professor.

"Jesus—" you hissed, then immediately regretted the blasphemy. "Sorry. I mean. Not literally."

He laughed—an easy, bright sound that didn’t feel professorly at all. "You’re fine. Though I should dock your participation points for that." He jokes.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

Dr. Yang was young—too young to be teaching undergrad theology without causing minor distractions every lecture. Word on campus was he’d graduated with a doctorate at twenty-five and took up this adjunct position "just for the experience," like it was a part-time internship. He always dressed sharp but casual—sweaters layered over button-downs, wire-framed glasses that somehow made him more intimidating, not less. He had the kind of face that belonged in a student catalog. 

Unfair.

"Anyway," he continued, setting his bag on the desk. "What are you working on?"

You paused. "A paper for my media class."

"You’re a comms major, right?"

You blinked. "You…remember that?"

"I remember most things," he replied, like it was no big deal. "Your essays always have a strong tone. Confident. A little sarcastic. I like that."

Your face went warm. Not blushing, obviously—you were way too emotionally detached for that. But warm.

He leaned back against the podium, arms crossed. "If you ever want to do your final paper on religious media or spiritual commodification, let me know. It’d be an interesting lens. And I think you’d kill it."

You blinked. Twice.

"Thanks," you said, suddenly feeling like you forgot how to blink altogether.

He smiled as he nodded gently, "Class starts in fifteen. Don’t let me keep you." He circles his desk as he takes a seat, soaking in the silence and tapping of your keyboard echoing throughout the room. 

It was nice actually, the quiet of the room. Never in your life have you ever really felt fully comfortable in the presence of another person. Not even your own mother. 

He’s calm, quiet, knows when to shut up (thankfully), and Dr. Yang being around…doesn’t bother you. You don’t feel antsy, squeamish, repulsed, or irritated at him being in the same room as you. 

But of course, you never know peace for long. Go figure!

"Dr. Yang! I brought your favorite," Riki’s voice rang out like a curse echoing through a cathedral as he strutted into the room holding iced coffees both hands.

You didn’t even look up. You already knew. Of course he was holding your favorite drink.

Dr. Yang looked up, slightly amused. "You remembered my order?"

"Nah, I guessed," Riki grinned. "But if it’s right, then I’m just that good."

Yang raised a brow. "I don’t usually take bribes before midterms."

"No bribe." Riki shook his head with a gentle smile.

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw your laptop at his face, if we’re being honest.

"Also," Riki added, walking right past you to the row behind and tapping your chair with his foot, "they were out of your basic vanilla syrup, so I made an executive decision and got you hazelnut."

Your eye twitched. "I didn’t ask for anything."

"I know. That’s what makes me so generous." He plopped down in the chair behind you and leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms. "You still mad about the pen thing?"

You didn’t respond.

Dr. Yang quickly spoke up, trying to fill the silence as he sensed your discomfort. "Mr. Nishimura, I’m happy you’re joining us a little early." He smiled as he stood and started to write the date on the whiteboard in preparation for the lecture.

"Good habits," Riki said, tossing his bag down just next to his feet. "Gotta keep up with the competition, y’know?"

You didn’t look at him, but you knew he was staring. That smug grin practically burned itself into your peripheral vision.

Dr. Yang smiled, oblivious to the landmine he just stepped over. "I didn’t know you two were competitive."

You both answered at the same time.

"She’s obsessed with winning."

 "He’s annoying on purpose."

There was a beat of silence before Jungwon let out a small laugh. "Right. Well, maybe a little healthy rivalry will do you both good."

You rolled your eyes. Riki just smirked.

He leaned back in his chair, the picture of smug comfort. "Some people work well under pressure. Others…get snippy."

You finally turned to glance at him, just for a second. "And some people mistake being tolerated for being wanted."

He mock-gasped. "That was a little rude. Professor, are we allowed to verbally assault each other before class starts?"

Jungwon didn’t even look up from the notes he was scribbling. "Only if it’s educational."

You pressed your lips together, suppressing a smile. Damn him for being witty.

Riki, still unfazed, leaned forward again and lowered his voice just for you. "I also told the barista your name was ‘raging nuisance.’ She wrote it on the cup and everything."

You turned slightly in your seat, expression flat. "I hope they spelled ‘annoying narcissist’ instead."

"Oh, they didn’t have enough room." He shook his head as he pursed his lips to keep himself from laughing.

You hated how easily he made you want to laugh. It was infuriating. You hated it even more that Jungwon was watching now, with that little curious crease between his brows like he was trying to figure out if this was flirting or warfare.

—

Class had ended five minutes ago, but you were still in the lecture hall, hovering awkwardly at the front while Dr. Yang packed up his laptop and notes.

He glanced up, surprised but not unkind. "Everything okay?"

You cleared your throat. "Yeah. I just…I wanted to ask if I could take you up on that religious media idea? For the final."

He perked up a little. "You serious?"

You nodded, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were keeping your organs from spilling out. "Yeah. I think it’d be interesting to look into faith-based marketing, especially in, like, TV or influencer culture. Plus, you said it’d be a strong angle. So…"

He smiled—just a little, enough to make your stomach twist in that annoying way. "Well, I stand by that. You’d do it justice."

You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitating. "Also…is there any extra credit I can do?"

That made him pause. "Extra credit? You’re stellar as is."

You nodded. "Not because I’m failing or anything," you added quickly, waving your hands. "I just want to buffer my grade. Just in case. You know. If something crazy happens. Like if, I don’t know, the guy who ruins my life recreationally decides to make me fail through psychic sabotage."

Dr. Yang blinked. "You want an assignment…to help you prepare for another assignment that’s not for two months?"

You hesitated. "…Yes?"

He huffed a laugh under his breath, rubbing his forehead. "You really are a comms major."

You shake your head, tasting the self-deprecation. "No, I’m just me."

"You’re just anxious," he corrected gently, though not unkindly. "But alright. How about this—bring me three examples of religious commodification in media by next class. Ads, shows, music videos, whatever. Annotate them briefly. If you do that, I’ll knock off your lowest quiz grade."

Your heart sank. "My lowest grade is an A."

He blinked. "...Okay?"

"So that doesn’t help me."

Dr. Yang looked at you for a second, then slowly set down his coffee. "Are you asking for extra credit on top of your already perfect grade?"

You hesitated. "No?"

He stared.

"…Yes."

There was a long pause. You stared at each other, the air thick with silent judgment—most of it coming from him.

"I’m gonna say something, and I need you to promise you won’t take it personally," he said finally.

You braced yourself.

"You’re insufferable."

You frowned a little, clutching your chest but still trying to stifle a laugh. "That’s not very nice of a Theology professor."

He smiles, "God forgives." He points at you, "I, however, am still working on it."

"So what do I do in the meantime?"

He smirks, folding his arms. "Do the assignment. Consider it a bonus...for your own amusement."

You raise an eyebrow. "So, like extra credit...but with zero reward?"

He shrugs. "Exactly. Just the satisfaction of knowing you could win at everything, if you wanted to."

Oh, this lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. "Thanks, Dr. Yang." You stood with a smile. "Hopefully this will be as enriching as you say."

"It should," he sighed. "I think it’s fun. Y’know? Something people your age should be having?"

You roll your eyes, "I should’ve taken the philosophy requirement instead." Walking away with a small laugh, you wave at him.

He calls out after you, "Then you’d be anxious and confused." 

He’s absolutely correct.

But you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that, just for the fun. To humor him. You leave the room with a smile, glad that he gave you something fun to think about. 

—

You turned the corner out of the lecture hall with that small smile on your lips and that funny feeling in your stomach.

Your fun little banter with Dr. Yang was always enjoyable, fun, super casual and it was nice to have an interaction with someone other than your stuffed animals and the beanpole that likes to nag you every chance he gets. 

It’s fucked up really, everytime you think about him, he just pops up. 

You make a right out of this hallway and suddenly clash into a lean figure. Your bag hits the wall closely on your right. Like a pinball hitting the walls in the machine. But lucky you, Riki huffs out a small laugh as he moves his hands up, holding your biceps as he walks you to stability against the wall. "Mmm…" He hummed, "let’s watch where we’re going." As if he wasn’t waiting there for you, hoping you ran into him. 

You nudged him off of you, "You did that on purpose, Riki." You sighed as you brush the residue of his hands off of you. 

He smiled down at you, then held up a brown paper bag. The same one he had earlier from the café that he either just got for himself or never gave to you. "Muffin for my muffin?"

Any other time, this would be cute. This is cute. This honestly just felt like another instance of him just being weird. He never took anything seriously, not your time, patience, or anything. And you don’t expect him to.

"Kick rocks," You scoff as you start walking toward the exit. 

"You’re welcome," Riki calls after you, jogging a few steps to catch up, the paper bag still in hand like he’s delivering a peace treaty.

You ignore him, pushing open the exit door with enough force that it slaps the frame behind you. You should’ve kept walking. You wanted to keep walking. But of course, he follows.

"It’s banana walnut," he says, a little sing-songy. "That’s your favorite, right? Or is it just the one you pretend to like when you’re trying to seem quirky and approachable to baristas?"

You stop walking.

He bumps into you again.

This time, you don’t shove him. You turn—slowly, dramatically, and with the kind of death-glare that could reduce lesser men to ashes. Fortunately, Riki doesn’t waver. "You were smiling on your way from class. Why?"

Your brows furrow, "I wasn’t smiling and if I was, it has nothing to do with you. Just like I want nothing to do with you." You throw your hands up flippantly. 

The same smile stays on his face as he shoves the bagged muffin into your hand. "Yeah, I don’t actually care." His tone mellows out to one more straight-foward and blunt. "But I did find you to make you aware that I will be applying for the summer internship. You know, the same one you’re applying for? The one that now that you have no chance of getting as long as I’m alive?" He tilts his head as the smile settles into the patronizing one you were oh-so-familiar with.

Your university had an internship promise for all students due to its very strong programs and alumni network. With this, business students (like yourself and Riki) were already a shoo-in for solid jobs and careers upon graduation. 

But this is the thing, there are always internship opportunities because there are thousands of students. Meaning that there are hundreds to thousands of internships. 

Yet, of course, Riki just wants to take this one. 

"I’m not applying for an internship this summer," you crossed your arms as you feigned indifference. Maybe having him think you didn’t would somehow wane his unshakeable tenacity. 

He saw through you though, "You are." He nodded, "The consulting group one. You don’t have to lie, I overheard you talking to your mommy about it last week." 

Every summer, your school works closely with consulting groups where they choose one student from each business college within the university (there only being three separate colleges) to fly to a major city to work on real-world business cases for Fortune 500 companies.

While like any other internship, it’s a great way to gain experience and network—however it is extremely competitive. Out of the thousands of students in this pool, only three are chosen. You had been super excited about this opportunity considering you are a Communications major—ironically enough given that you don’t know how to communicate with anyone—and you truly do want to have this chance to get your name out there. To dip your toes into this career path. 

But naturally, Riki didn’t find appeal in those. He wanted yours. Because really, why not?

"Can’t you just apply for all of the other dozens?" You turn, trying to get ahead to the dining hall for your lunch. A nice, greasy batch of french fries really sounded up your alley today. "It’s not like you’d lose them."

He followed in step with you. "So by that logic, I should apply for this one. Because I wouldn’t lose." He smiled, biting his lip dreamily as he looked up in the air at the trees. "I mean, really think about it. What’s the score now? Riki, a million and one. You, zero?"

You hadn’t looked at him since you started walking and you definitely weren’t going to look at him now. That familiar twist in your stomach, the burning sensation right at the bottom. You had known it all too well and you didn’t miss it.

"Now that I think of it, you’re not good at anything, really." He shook his head thoughtfully. "Though you were right about one thing. You can’t compete where you don’t compare." Riki grabbed your arm to stop you forcefully, ensuring you looked him dead in the eye. "But you weren’t talking about me." 

"I don’t know when you’ll learn, sweetheart. But in case those books you read hadn’t exactly informed you well enough, then I will." The smile he once had is now extinct. "Quit while you’re ahead. Wait—" he stopped for a beat as he looked down, feigning thought. "You’re not even ahead!" He let out a semblance of a laugh. "And you never will be. So just save yourself the heartache, go hole back up in that dorm. Bury yourself into those cute little romance books just wishing for the love you’ll never have and forget about it." The distance between you two had gotten smaller than you could comprehend. And conveniently barely anyone was around either. Everyone either in the classroom buildings or somewhere else. Some stragglers running amok, most likely late for classes.

But in this position, it didn’t even matter. You could be in a sea of people and still feel as vulnerable as if you were in the wilderness. Riki’s eyes weren’t teasing, weren’t funny, weren’t cool. 

His eyes held pure venom. Just disgust and repugnance, and that had no place on a face like his.

You blink, once, slowly. Like your brain’s buffering because surely he didn’t just say all that to your face.

But he did. And now he’s looking at you like he’s proud of it. Like he’s already won.

For a second, you wonder if he has.

Because yeah, maybe your confidence is stitched together by duct tape and quiet desperation. Maybe your hands are clammy, your throat’s tight, and your eyes are starting to sting like they always do when you’re angry but can’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.You looked over his shoulder, at the bark of a tree because you simply couldn’t dare to look at him without so much as bursting into tears. Because you know it just like he does, you’re not confident. You don’t measure up to him. In anything. And in a perfect story where you’re supposed to be the badass that has this amazing comeback and he sits there, gobsmacked and ready to tongue you down, this just isn’t the case. 

You are weak. You froze.

Smart people like you are a dime a dozen.

Intelligent, brilliant people like him are once in a lifetime.

So you do nothing.

You don’t shove him. You don’t scream. You don’t drop a monologue that sends the birds scattering.

You just stand there. Breathing too hard, blinking too fast.

And Riki knows it. Of course he does. That’s why he’s still staring at you with that smug little expression, like this is just another check on his running list of victories. Like he already knows how this ends. He walks away, you crumble, and the world spins on its axis. Business as usual.

But the thing is—you’re not mad at him. Not really.

You’re mad at yourself.

Because even after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted him to be wrong. Still wanted him to look at you like you were a challenge. A threat. Like you were someone worth worrying about.

Instead, he looks at you like you’re predictable.

And maybe that’s worse than hate. Maybe it’s worse than anything.

You swallow around the lump in your throat. Try to breathe through your nose, like the therapist you stopped seeing after two sessions told you. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

Because Riki’s right.

And you hate that. God, you hate it. The way he always seems to know what he’s doing, what he wants, who he is. And the worst part is? He’s probably not even trying. He’s probably not even thinking about you anymore.

You tighten your grip around the muffin, its paper wrap crinkling beneath your fingers like your composure.

So he smiles gently, sadistically at your now cowered demeanor. He snatched the muffin out of your hand. "You weren’t gonna eat it anyway, right?"

Your eyes finally moved, looking down at the concrete you stood on just as he let you go. 

He noticed your expression, how defeated and distant your irises were beyond what he could see. So he crouched a little, still as patronizing as ever. "I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings." Pouting as he gently moved your face to look at him. Thumb caressing the flesh of your scorching hot cheek. So delicate, like if he put even the smallest bit more pressure he would put a dent in you. "Someone’s gotta tell you the truth. It’s not like you have anyone else to do it…"

Oh, fuck him. You thought.

"I’m just looking out for you, hm?" He let go just as easily. "Same time tomorrow?" He waved as he rubbed your shoulder, wandering off to God knows where as you stood there. Burning, aching, and barely able to stand the sight of yourself.

—

Dr. Yang’s office is warm. On the fourth floor, tucked in at the very end of the hallway. The type of offices you see in movies or create in your imagination from books. His desk was in the middle, right behind it was an expansive recessed bookshelf with media from 1984 to Cold War textbooks to Wuthering Heights. For some reason it was very earthy, everything was made of strong, sturdy wood and he always got just the right amount of sunlight.

You knock, just lightly enough not to scare him. 

He’s leaning over a stack of papers, glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. "Office hours miracle?" he asks, smiling when he sees you. "Come in."

You slid in and closed the door back behind you. "Hey, sorry to bother y—"

Dr. Yang immediately shook his head. "You’re not bothering me. You’ve never even been here before. Sit, sit." He nodded to the chair in front of the desk encouragingly. "What’s up?" Sitting down smoothly, you pull out a notebook, flipping it open to a page cluttered with highlighter scribbles and sideways questions. "It’s about the assignment," you say, tapping the corner of the page. "The first paper? I swear I read the prompt like…six times. And I’m still not sure I’m doing it right."

Dr. Yang smiles, easy. "That’s a promising start. Confusion means you’re thinking."

You raise a brow. "That sounds like something people say right before you fail."

He laughs—warm, unbothered. "Maybe. But it also means you’re trying to find the right angle, not just the easy one. Let me see."

You pass him your notebook and he scans it, nodding slowly. "You’re writing about digital spaces and moral identity?"

You nod. "Yeah. Like, how people perform goodness online. But it’s so abstract that every time I try to put it into a thesis, it feels fake-deep or pretentious."

"Fake-deep," he repeats, amused. "I should make that a grading category."

You smirk faintly, despite yourself.

He leans back in his chair, setting the notebook on the desk. "Here’s the thing—you’re asking big questions. That’s not a flaw at all. It’s direction, if anything. The key is narrowing it without dumbing your words down."

You shift in your seat, chewing your bottom lip. "I just don’t want it to sound like I’m pointing fingers. Or worse, like I don’t even know what I’m talking about."

He tilts his head, considering you. "May I ask something?"

"Sure."

"What made you afraid of sounding unsure?"

You blink. The question hangs in the air, soft but weighted.

"I don’t know," you lie. Instinctively. Because saying his name out loud makes your skin crawl. And you’re not ready—not here, not yet.

Dr. Yang doesn’t push. He just nods, like he heard what you didn’t say. "Well. You’re allowed to sound unsure in a draft. That’s where you figure things out. It’s part of the process."

You look down at your hands, fingers still curled around the edge of the notebook. "Okay."

"Also," he adds gently, "I hope you know it’s okay to be a little lost. That’s kind of the point of college…and life itself."

You let out a shaky laugh. "You sound like a fortune cookie."

"A well-read one," he says. "Want help outlining it? Or would that ruin the illusion of academic suffering?"

You smile, a little crooked. "Honestly? I could use the help."

He grabs a pen. "Great. Let’s de-suffer this together."

And just like that, it’s easier to breathe. The weight on your chest isn’t gone, not by a long shot—but it shifts. Just enough to remind you: there are still places in the world that feel soft. That don’t ask you to be clever or composed. Just you.

And maybe, slowly, that’s where you’ll start.

—

After a solid hour of brainstorming and bouncing off of each other, you and Dr. Yang had actually slowly let go of the outline. At this point, you had finished it seeing as you had quickly begun to understand the topic. The young professor was actually great at explaining things without making you feel like an idiot or silly for being confused. Now, you two were chatting about everything and nothing, mild debates over books. Movies. Who knew that he actually enjoyed hate-watching fanfic movies?

"Okay wait no, The QB and Me wasn’t even that bad, though." You smiled as you pointed at him, chewing on the snacks that he offered you. Gladly, he munched on some with you to not make you feel lonely while eating. Which is always fun.

He smiles, amused. "Just hearing the ‘I’m so sick of your main character energy’ line from the best friend was enough to make me want to off myself." 

You’re currently sitting on the brown leather couch that smelled of cologne. The material was slightly worn but for some reason, couches like this always felt the best. You could tell he definitely slept on this couch more often than not. "No, I won’t lie, the best friend did piss me off at some points. Like girl, we get that you got denied from Princeton but your friend also broke up with a guy she really liked. Sorry she didn’t just jump to your aid when she was already hurting?" You ranted, and honestly, this was the most you’ve ever spoken to someone about something this niche in a very long time.

"It’s not even that," he waved his hand as he tried to muffle his laugh. "The fact that at the party they went to, she left Dallas there knowing she was drinking. Then!" He sighed dramatically. "Hear me out, she left with the main guy’s brother. My thing is, you knew she was drinking so why didn’t you at least make sure she was good before you left?" He shrugged with irritation in his eyes. "Could’ve dropped her at home on the way to wherever y’all were going. Or could’ve had the main guy keep an eye on her and ensure he took her home, like this is your best friend!" 

You’re giggling into the sleeve of your hoodie now, half from the sugar rush and half from how serious he sounds about this plot hole. "Bro, she did not care. At all."

"I was actually rooting for their friendship more than the romance," he says with a thoughtful look. "Because I love a meaningful friendship arc. But when she just started to be weird then she lost me. And I’m usually forgiving. That’s a work in progress."

You laugh into your sleeve again, the sound bubbling out of you without resistance. It’s strange—how natural this feels. Like the conversation has been happening for years instead of just an hour. No pressure, no grades, no expectations. Just two nerds slandering messy fictional girls.

Eventually, your laughter fades into a smile. The room settles into something softer, more open.

Jungwon leans back on the couch, tilting his head toward you. "I’m really glad you came today," he says, voice quiet but clear. "I hope I was able to help you with what you needed."

You nod, returning the smile. "Yeah. I feel a lot better about the outline. And…everything."

A beat passes. He glances at you again.

"You can call me Jungwon, by the way," he says, casual but intentional. "If you want."

You blink, surprised for a second—but then something settles in your chest. It feels like a trust fall you didn’t know you were invited to. "Jungwon?"

He nods, waving you off with a casual expression. "Yeah, I mean—I’m not really one for formalities."

"…Okay. Jungwon." You say it slowly, like tasting something new. "Thanks."

He looks like he might say something else—but instead just gives a soft, content nod.

—

When you’re standing up to leave, hoodie sleeves pulled over your wrists and your bag hanging off one shoulder, you pause near the door.

"Thanks for walking me out that night," you say, voice gentler than you intend. "At the library. I know it was late."

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly remembering. "Of course. You looked like you needed an out."

You hum. "Yeah. Riki was…being Riki."

He eyes you carefully now. "What’s going on between you two, anyway?" he asks, lightly. "You a thing? Like slow-burn enemies-to-lovers or something?"

You scrunch your nose immediately. "What? No. Definitely not. I think you’re the one who reads too many books."

He smirks. "Didn’t even hesitate."

You shrug, trying not to reveal too much. "Riki’s not…a very nice person?" You adjust your bag on your shoulder. "I don’t know, he just…can be very weird sometimes."

Jungwon furrows his brows as he crosses his arms, leaning against his desk. Something he tends to do but you noticed this is his analytical stance. "Weird, how?"

"Like…" you look up in thought as you tilt your head, trying to turn those cogs in your brain. "Riki and I aren’t friends. He thoroughly enjoys making my life even more difficult than it is. But I think he knows the power he has over me and really isn’t afraid to make me aware of it." 

Jungwon’s brows lift slightly, arms still crossed. "That’s…a lot," he says carefully. "The ‘power he has over you’ part—what does that mean?"

You blink, suddenly aware of how much you just gave away. The words had spilled out too fast, too unfiltered, like a truth you didn’t mean to say out loud.

You let out a dry laugh, trying to wave it off. "I mean, not like…real power. He’s just annoying. Egocentric. He knows how to get under my skin, that’s all."

Jungwon doesn’t look convinced. "Still sounds like someone who’s in your head a lot."

You glance toward the floor. "Unfortunately."

There’s a quiet pause. Not awkward, but a bit tense rather. He watches you a second longer, eyes thoughtful but not judging. Just trying to understand. "Just—be careful with people like that, okay?" he says softly. "Competition can go south very quickly. I’d hate for you to lose yourself in something like that." He stops himself. Doesn’t want to overstep.

You nod slowly. "I know."

Jungwon pushes off the desk and walks over to the door, opening it again for you. "You don’t deserve that type of worry," he says casually, almost like a passing thought. "Friend or foe. But if it ever gets to be too much, my email and office are at your disposal always."

You manage a small smile. "Thanks, Jungwon."

He gives a half-smile back. "Anytime." He nods, his smile now expanding. "And tell Dallas we deserved better."

You snort, shaking your head as you step into the hallway. "You’re never letting that go, huh?"

He shrugs, still grinning. "I’d sooner die."

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, but the words—and the warmth of them—linger. You tuck that somewhere deep, somewhere safe.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re walking away from something heavy. You feel like you might’ve left a little of it behind.

—

Since you and Jungwon’s fun ‘office hours-turned-hangout’ last week, he’s been thinking. 

Like really thinking. 

He prides himself on being very observant and someone that can truly read people. So as he stepped into class today, he was going to do that. He was going to do more of that. He was going to really try to understand what you meant exactly by weird. Because somehow it felt like every answer you gave was something that you couldn’t exactly describe. Something you had to just see for yourself. "Hey guys," he smiled as he entered the lecture hall. You and your fellow classmates all chorused some greetings. ‘Hi’ ‘Good morning’ ‘Hello’ all heard from throughout the room. 

Jungwon surveyed the room after he set his stuff down. Acting as if he was noting attendance but he was really trying to find you and the guy whose name seemed to send you over the edge—not in a good way. You were always easy to spot because you always occupied the same seat. Or at least a seat in the general area so he never had to look too far. And low and behold, there was Riki. Sat directly behind. He never seemed to be far from you. 

Jungwon’s gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary before your shy little smile caught his attention. A barely-there wave, hand lifting just off the desk, like it was meant for no one to notice. A soft Hi mouthed across the room.

He smiled back.

Jungwon kept his expression casual as he started the lecture. But his brain? Fully elsewhere. Yet his subconscious just knew the material. It was like he was on auto-pilot. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting to see—but this? This dance? The barely-there glances and stilted body language? It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t hate either. It was…something uncomfortable. Intimate. Sharp like a paper cut.

Throughout the lecture, Jungwon would make a joke or pose a question, and you’d smile or laugh—and Riki would react. Not directly. Not outwardly. But there was a flicker of something behind his eyes every time you were pulled into someone else’s orbit.

Possessiveness? No. Not quite.

Awareness. He could work with awareness.

At one point, Jungwon asked a discussion question. The room went silent. You didn’t raise your hand, but Riki did. Voice calm, confident, and direct.

Jungwon watched you react to that. A blink. A shift. The faintest look toward him like you were waiting for a punchline.

But Riki didn’t look at you. Not even once. Which almost made it worse. Like he didn’t have to.

By the time class ended, Jungwon had filled three mental pages with observations he wasn’t sure what to do with. He wasn’t trying to meddle. Wasn’t even sure if he could. But he’d seen enough to know something wasn’t sitting right.

So as students packed up, he walked to his desk and clicked his pen closed. Then, for no reason at all, his gaze flicked back to Riki. And Riki was already looking at him.

—

The last backpack zips, chatter fades, doors clap shut. Jungwon closes his laptop but keeps his eyes on the tall kid who’s still lounging like the room’s a private suite. "Mr. Nishimura—got a sec?"

Riki pauses mid-scroll, thumb hovering over whatever meme he’s pretending to be enthralled in. "Sure, Professor."

The casual swagger is turned up to eleven, but Jungwon’s already perceived the tension hiding in his shoulders. He motions to the front row. "Sit."

Riki drops into the seat, a smirk ready-made. "What’s up? You wanna roast my paper, too?"

"Your paper’s fine. This is…different." Jungwon folds his arms, leaning on the desk. "I’ve noticed you and her have a lively…dynamic."

Riki’s grin wobbles one millimeter. "Dynamic. Nice word."

"Of course," Jungwon deadpans. "Listen, healthy competition is great. But when one person looks ready to bolt every time the other walks in? That’s not just rivalry."

Riki shrugs—classic slow roll of broad shoulders. "She and I mess with each other. It’s mutual."

"Is it mutual when she’s gripping the edge of her desk like a life preserver?"

Silence. A muscle jumps in Riki’s jaw.

Jungwon softens his voice. "I’m not here to police friendships. But I am responsible for how my students treat each other in my space. And I care about her well-being. I hope you know the same would apply if it was the other way around."

Something flickers in Riki’s eyes—gone before Jungwon can name it. Guilt? Offense? Both? "She’s tough," Riki says finally, quieter than before. "She’s fine."

"Maybe. It still doesn’t hurt to be considerate."

Riki exhales through his nose, gaze sliding to the classroom door. "You done, sir?"

"For now." Jungwon straightens, giving him an out. "Just think about what I said."

Riki stands, slings his bag over one shoulder. "Thinking’s dangerous."

Jungwon smiles slightly. "I’ll take my chances."

Riki huffs a laugh—more breath than sound—then heads for the exit. Jungwon watches, filing away every micro-expression for later. He isn’t sure he got through, but at least a seed’s been planted.

— Later that day—

You knocked on Jungwon’s door, waiting for his permission to enter. As you heard it, you poked your head through the door. "Hi," you smiled. "Are you busy?"

Jungwon slightly closed his laptop as a way to let you know you had his attention. "No, what’s up?" For some reason, seeing your face warmed him. He couldn’t explain the feeling.

"Nothing, I was just wondering if I could chill here? I still have a ton of things to do and I don’t wanna go to the library beca—" You ranted frantically but he held up his hand to interrupt you. "Please, you don’t need an excuse to come here. It’s okay, you’re my friend." He nodded as he eyed you warmly. "Make yourself comfortable."

Somehow, hearing the word ‘friend’ sent something warm through you too. Stepping through the door and closing it behind you, you sat down on that brown leather couch. "Thanks, um…so do you have any classes or are you done for the day?" You took your laptop out of your bag and opened it, waiting for it to power on. 

"With classes, yeah. But I have a meeting in like ten minutes." He said, eyes locked in on his own stuff. 

You frowned, feeling like you were in the way. "Wait—then I can just go or come back later—"

He laughed a little, "If I didn’t want you here I would’ve said so. It’s just a department meeting." Again, waving you off.

"I don’t wanna be an impudence, you know? I can just go then come back after."

Jungwon tilted his head as he looked at you. "Are you gonna steal or break anything?" He muffled a laugh as he asked baseless questions.

Your brows furrowed, "No,"

He shrugged, "Okay, I trust you. It’s not a big deal."

You nodded silently, ultimately deciding not to fight him on this as you retreated back to your laptop. Working on some assignments and today’s Wordle.

Though as things fell into a silence, you looked up to see him gathering his things. 

He slipped on his adorable blue sweater-vest and tossed a couple of papers into a folder before sliding it into his bag. 

"You sure you don’t mind me being here?" you asked again, quieter this time.

Jungwon looked over his shoulder at you as he adjusted the strap on his bag. "It’s no sweat,"

You shrugged, sheepish. "I just don’t wanna overstep."

He walked toward the door but paused before opening it. "You won’t. Seriously."

You offered a small smile, and he smiled back before pointing at you like he was making a very official declaration. "Don’t burn the place down. You know where the snacks are. There’s a blanket in the cabinet. Water is in the fridge but you can have whatever. And if anyone asks, I did not leave you unattended."

You snorted. "What kind of things do you think I get up to?"

"I’ve seen the way you rage at your laptop," he teased. "I don’t trust that thing’s lifespan."

You opened your mouth, offended. "Wordle betrayed me the last time!"

"Mhm," he hummed, already opening the door. "If my office’s on fire when I get back, I’m blaming Wordle."

"Tell your department it was worth it," you called after him, watching as he disappeared down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward. Just peaceful. You took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch, the glow of your laptop illuminating your face.

But you closed it, figuring that you just weren’t in the mood for your history assignment. It wasn’t due for another three weeks anyway. You slipped it back into your bag and stood up, as now you could finally get a feel for Jungwon’s space now that he was absent. You started with the walls, inspecting them but not touching anything out of fear that a sudden clumsiness would overcome you. Like any other professor, he had his degrees on display. Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts, then Doctor of Philosophy. All under thirty, how did he do it? You wonder. Or maybe it may very well be possible, you didn’t know the first thing about graduate school at this juncture.

But none of the things on the wall seemed entirely too personal. Besides the degrees, there were cute paintings—one he had done himself and another one that he seemed to have bought. But the real magic was in the bookshelf. The enormous recessed bookshelf that took up the entire wall was made of media spanning a myriad of genres, authors, topics. From Hughes, Dickinson, Orwell, to Vonnegut. To sci-fi, horror, nonfiction, romance, contemporary, etc. He even had textbooks with the sticky tabs and annotation stickers in them. Multiple to one page. 

To which it wasn’t like any of this didn’t make sense. As established, Jungwon was an academic and the thing about academics is that they don’t like to be wrong in anything. That if they find that there is something they don’t know then they do everything in their power to know everything there is to know about that topic. That seemed to be the case here. It was either that or they’re especially skilled in a subject matter and fall short in literally everything else.

Out of curiosity, your eyes fell on The Souls of Black Folk and you plucked it off the shelf. With a content sigh, you go back to the couch and make yourself comfortable. Lying down on the cushion, the leather rubbing together and giving way beneath your weight—you rested your head on a soft throw pillow and opened the book to sink your teeth into it. Of Our Spiritual Strivings. For the next twenty minutes you flipped through the pages, digesting the heavy content but nonetheless—enjoying the serenity that comes with Jungwon’s space. 

Everything about him was just so calming and forgiving. Whether he was here or not, Jungwon ensured that you were safe no matter what. Not just physically but emotionally and really it felt nice to finally have someone in a place where you felt like you didn’t belong. You heard fidgeting at the doorknob and sat up with a slight smile, gosh—you felt like a fucking dog. You put the book down in your lap and quickly…fixed your hair?

But on the other side of the door, came in a slightly taller guy. The feline, the panther you were all too familiar with and you had never felt your mood deflate so hastily. "Hey, Dr. Yang, I was won—oh…"

Riki stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, blinking at the sight of you curled up on Jungwon’s couch like you belonged there. His brows lifted, and something unreadable flickered across his face—like he had walked into a room expecting applause and got dead silence instead. "Oh," he repeated, stepping inside anyway. He didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. "Didn’t know this was a friends-only zone now."

You sat up straighter, subtly sliding the book off your lap like it hadn’t just become your emotional support paperback. "He’s not here," you said simply. Riki’s gaze dropped to the book as he walked in further. "Yeah, no shit." He tilted his head, surveying the space like he owned stock in it. "Didn’t think I’d find you here though. What’s this? Weekly playdate with your fave professor?"

You narrowed your eyes. "I’m studying."

He glanced at the lax body language, you were sitting up now but clearly from the dent—you were comfortable. Then at the open book. Then back to you, all amusement. "Yeah. Real intense study session you got going on. You highlight with your eyes, huh?" You rolled your eyes, grabbing the throw pillow behind you and tossing it lightly at him. "You’re so annoying."

He caught it easily, holding it against his chest with a mock expression of betrayal. "You wound me. I come in here, innocent, curious, seeking intellectual growth—"

"You were looking for Jungwon."

"Jungwon?" He tilted his head with a shock behind his smile. Laughing—almost maniacally through it. "You’re on a first name basis?" You shrugged, "There’s nothing wrong with making friends with a professor or getting to know people." Playing with the sleeves of your knitted sweater as you avoided his eye contact. But Riki was anything—but he wasn’t stupid. A beat of silence.

"You like him."

Your eyes snapped up, and for a split second, your mouth opened like you were about to fire back something clever—something—but nothing came out.

Riki was already smirking slightly.

"I don’t like him," you said finally, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

He held your gaze like he was testing it for cracks. "Yeah? ‘Cause you look real comfortable for someone who’s just friends with their professor. Got your little pillow fort going, reading Du Bois like you’re about to rock yourself to sleep."

You scoffed. "You act like I broke into his office."

"I wouldn’t put it past you," he said, stepping closer, tossing the pillow gently back onto the couch—your couch now, apparently. "We all know how much of a weird freak you are. You probably write about him in your diary. Sniff his seat. Snort his eraser shavings."

"I don’t like him," you said again, this time slower. Firmer. "He’s nice. That’s it."

Riki nodded, almost like he was accepting that. Almost. "I don’t blame you if you did. He’s good-looking, mature, stable, and kind. Accepting. Which is something you really need more than ever." He snickered toward the end of his statement. "But I think it’s best if you told your boyfriend that I’m no bully." He said, tilting his head as he tried to muffle his frustration. "Sending your new bestie to press me about our friendly little ‘dynamic’ is a fucking cop-out and you know it." He crosses his arms as he peers down at you.

Again, as confused as ever, you shook your head as if it would somehow let loose anything that you may have forgotten. "What are you—I never—"

"Stop fucking lying to me." Riki said firmly as edged closer to the couch. "If me and you have our spats that’s one thing, but siccing a professor on me is low. And I’m sure that you know that by now I can go lower."

This was classic Riki. Conversations with him always started as teasing, maybe a little lighthearted but he never failed to remind you of who he was and who you were. He always flipped the script—started with a smirk, ended with a knife. You stood up slowly from the couch, the book in your lap forgotten, still open on your last page. "I didn’t send anyone after you," you said, voice steady, though your hands were starting to feel too warm. "I don’t even know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t play dumb," Riki snapped, tone just shy of venom. "Yang cornered me after class. Real casual, real calm. Asking me what’s up with you, how I treat you, what our history is. Sounded like a concerned boyfriend trying not to sound like one."

You blinked. "And that automatically means I sent him?"

"Yes," he snapped again, "who else?"

You paused, because…okay, fine. He had a point there. But still.

"I didn’t tell him to do anything," you repeated. "He just—cares. People can care, Riki. Not everyone is out to get you."

"Right," he scoffed. "But I’m the manipulative one, right?"

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you weren’t sure what answer would even matter to him right now. There was silence. A thick, electric kind that made the small office suddenly feel like it had no oxygen.

Then: Riki exhaled through his nose and looked away. "You know what pisses me off?" he muttered. "You say I have power over you, like I’m holding something over your head. But you let me get to you. And I don’t know if it’s because you want me to or because you think I deserve to." He looked at you again, softer this time, but somehow that made it worse. "But either way, you always pretend like I’m the only problem. And you don’t even see how much of a liar that makes you. It’s almost like you get off on it. On me, ‘making your life miserable’ when you invite this."

It was a quiet kind of blow. The kind you don’t dodge because it didn’t come with fire—it came with fact. And the worst part was that you didn’t have a defense. "Look," he put his hands up in concession. "All I’m saying is be careful. We wouldn’t want Dean Park to find out just in case this camaraderie teetered just over the edge of Bible study." He smiles, but like always there was nothing behind it.

"You wouldn’t." You mumbled in disbelief. 

"You don’t know what I would do." He smiled as he tilted his head. "Right?" Riki scans your body language: defensive, slightly worried. Much to his shame—which he doesn’t know if he has any—something horrid, deep-seated loves to see you squirm.

Just the power he exercises over you and stirs something in the pit of his stomach. Something about you cowering under the weight of his gaze ignites a flame somewhere inside of him. He doesn’t even know if he likes you, he just likes the reactions you give him because he knows you don’t have the gumption to really stand up for yourself. 

Huh, so maybe it was improper to blame you.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because he was right—at least about some of it. Maybe most of it. You didn’t know anymore. It was like every word from his mouth rewrote the rules of the game you didn’t even realize you were playing. Riki took a slow step forward, like a predator testing the limits of a snare he’d already set. "See," he said, voice low, almost sweet, "it’s not that I want to make your life hell. I don’t wake up thinking, ‘how do I ruin her day today?’" He paused. "Most days."

That grin again. Wolfish.

"But you let me. And I think you like being the victim more than you’d admit. It’s easier, right? To play helpless? To act like you don’t have choices. Like I’m the one who pulls every string when half the time, you hand me the scissors."

You hated that his words sank deep enough to sting. Hated even more that part of you wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or just shame for being so easily read.

"I’m not helpless," you muttered, quiet but firm.

He nodded slowly, eyes glinting. "Prove it."

The challenge hung between you like smoke. But you didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you didn’t know what proving it even meant anymore. So Riki just gave a short, dismissive exhale and backed away again, straightening his hoodie as he nodded in acceptance. "That’s what I thought."

He didn’t look at you when he opened the door this time. Didn’t give you another smirk or threat. Just paused, hand on the knob, and said, "you and your ‘friend’ better keep my name out of your mouth." 

Then he walked right out—closing the door softly in his wake.

—

Not even five minutes later, the door clicked open again.

"Meeting ended early," Jungwon said brightly as he stepped in, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and his messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder. "Thank God, too. I think if one more person said the word ‘interdisciplinary’ I was gonna—"

He stopped short when he saw you.

Your posture was stiff. Book in your lap, but your hands weren’t turning the pages anymore. You weren’t even looking at it. You were just…sitting. Quiet. Still. Something about the air shifted. Jungwon’s smile dipped, just a little. "Hey," he said more gently now. "You okay?"

You blinked like you’d been underwater. "Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine."

"Are you sure?" He moved toward you slowly, setting his bag down. "You look kinda out of it."

You shook your head, trying to wave it off, forcing a laugh. "Just tired. My bad. I think your couch tricked me into feeling too cozy. I think I’m gonna call it a night."

Jungwon didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. He didn’t argue. Didn’t laugh it off or try to fill the space too quickly. He just studied you for a beat, then walked over—slowly—and crouched by the couch so you were eye-level.

"You sure?" he asked, gently.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t mean to look away, but you did.

Then, quieter: "You don’t have to say what happened. But you don’t have to leave either. Not unless you want to."

You finally looked at him. There was no pressure in his gaze, no pity. Just that same calm, open patience that always felt like an invitation. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was weak—but you didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to be alone.

So instead of grabbing your bag, you let out a breath and nodded. "Okay," you whispered.

Jungwon offered a small smile—barely there. "Good." He stood and moved to the small kettle tucked in the corner. "Chamomile or lemon?"

You closed your eyes for a second. Let your body sink into the couch again.

"Lemon," you said. "Please."

—

He brought two mismatched mugs to you, handing you one like it was sacred. That if you even touched it with the wrong finger it’d burn you. Which is true, it could’ve.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Wanna hear something truly embarrassing?"

You glanced at him, suspicious. "More embarrassing than pretending to be an expert in garbage rom-coms?"

"Tragically, yes."

You gestured grandly. "By all means."

He exhaled, already laughing at himself. "Alright. When I was like thirteen, I went through this huge Greek mythology phase. Like, read every book, watched every documentary, made a family tree of the gods...I was in deep."

You squinted. "That’s not embarrassing. That’s just being a gifted kid with a hyperfixation."

"Wait for it." He held up a hand. "So one day, I decided I wanted to live like a demigod. I carried a plastic sword around the house. Made my mom call me ‘Son of Athena.’ Tried to sneak ambrosia—which was just honey and Gatorade—into my lunchbox."

You choked on your tea. "Stop."

"I even made a Camp Half-Blood bead necklace out of macaroni." His voice cracked from the shame. "And wore it. To school."

You leaned forward, wheezing. "Oh my God, you LARPed?!"

"I trained," he said, dead serious. "In the backyard. My neighbors thought I was a sword-obsessed theater kid."

"Were they wrong?"

He shrugged. "Honestly? They weren’t too far off."

The two of you dissolved into quiet laughter again, and for a second, the tension that had been clawing at your ribs all afternoon just...let go.But when the giggles subsided and your tea had cooled, you finally glanced at him sideways. "Jungwon…"

He looked at you over the rim of his mug. "Hm?"

"I know you pulled Riki aside after class."

A beat. "What…? No."

You didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow to communicate that he already knew how. Jungwon sighed, looking almost bashful. "Yeah. I did."

"Please don’t do that again." You sigh as you put the mug on the couch-side table and turn to him with a slight frown.

His eyes snapped to you, surprised.

You tucked your legs up on the couch and turned to face him. "I appreciate you looking out, really. I do. But I don’t need you to defend me. I’m a big girl."

There was a pause. Then a quiet, almost guilty: "I get that. I just…I’m your friend. And—"

"You are my friend," you interrupted softly. "But you’re also our professor."

You saw it in the way the glint in his eyes dimmed, just slightly. Like he hadn’t thought about it that way until right now. He quickly suppressed these feelings. Because after hearing that and the way it made him feel, he started to panic. Just a bit though, he didn’t want to think too much into it.

So he nods curtly, "Yeah. No, yeah. Totally. You’re right, I overstepped. I’m sorry."

You shook your head fervently, "No, you’re good." You put your hand out to rest onto his instantaneously. And neither one of you moved. "You didn’t have any ill intentions at all and that’s fine, I’m not upset. I just didn’t think you would say something to him." Laughing awkwardly, you look down at your lap. Jungwon looked down at your warm hand that covered his own, and it wasn’t until he looked at them that he felt some tingling in his stomach. "I know…I just—you’re genuinely so compassionate…and lovely. No one deserves to be treated the way you are. And I may not have seen exactly what he’s done but I see the way you look around him. Like…your body shrivels up, you feel threatened or something. So I figured that if I’m in the position where I could stop it then…" He sighed as he nodded in understanding. "I wanted to…I just wanted to advocate for you."

You smiled faintly at his words. Small, but sincere. Because even if it stung before, hearing it from him now—so earnestly—it softened something in you.

"I get that," you murmured. "And…thank you. Really. You didn’t have to, but you did."

He let out a breath through his nose, some tension loosening in his shoulders. "It just didn’t sit right with me. The way he talks to you, like he’s always trying to win something. It’s on the cusp of bullying. He’s weaponizing his own strengths against someone he perceives to be inferior. I think it’s improper to not call it what it is."

You didn’t respond to that. Mostly because he wasn’t wrong.

Jungwon caught your silence and added gently, "I’m sorry if I made it worse. I wasn’t trying to step in for you, I just…I wanted him to know someone was paying attention. That somebody cares."

You nodded slowly, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the back of his hand. "I think I needed to hear that more than I realized."

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and it made your heart skip. Not because it was romantic, but because it felt like he saw you. Like he’d been seeing you this whole time, even when you tried so hard to disappear into the background.

For a second, you sat in the quiet, hand in his, both of you absorbing the moment. Then you said, more to yourself than to him, "It’s...hard to accept help when you’re used to feeling like a burden."

He didn’t try to offer some corny fix-it response. Didn’t say "you’re not a burden" or "you should talk to someone." He just gave your hand the lightest squeeze. "Whatever it is, I got you. I won’t do that again unless I feel that there’s serious danger. Mental, physical…you know." Jungwon pursed his lips, showcasing his small dimples. Took everything in you not to poke them.

But you sighed of relief, "Thank you,"

He smiled at you—soft and genuine, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. "Of course."

You let your eyes fall to your intertwined hands again, then gave his a gentle squeeze back before slowly pulling away. Not because you wanted to, but because any longer and you were scared of what it might start to mean. Thus, you just started to fill the silence. "You know, I actually had a Greek mythology phase too." 

Jungwon’s brows perked up, "Really?" He leaned back on the couch as he grabbed your mug to pass it to you as he grabbed his. 

Smiling, "Yeah, I watched this entire video on the history of Greek mythology. It was like…from the very beginning with the sun, the moon, all that. Then to like the stories of Arachne and the achilles heel thing." You looked down at your mug, your finger slowly circled the rim of it. "Basically the chronology of it." You sipped the tea, letting it warm your insides.

He smiles, "Arachne? I don’t quite remember that one—"

You perked up, "Oh my gosh, I get to teach the brilliant professor something?" 

Jungwon laughed gently, eyes not leaving you. "I guess so," he sipped his chamomile. "Do tell," 

You adjusted on the couch and put the mug down again. Sitting in the butterfly position on the couch and you hugged one of the throw pillows to your chest. "Okay, so basically Arachne was a very skilled weaver. By the way, there are a few different tellings but I’m just going by Ovid’s—the Roman poet’s—account. Okay wait," You smiled brightly as you started, getting excited as you love to show off your knowledge. But you also felt some sort of catharsis of having someone to listen to you.

"So yes, Arachne was so boastful of her skills as a weaver that she challenged Athena—we all know Athena—to see who could weave the best. So they did and whatever," you waved your hands around as you rambled. "So get this, Athena weaved a tapestry that showcased idiotic mortals like Arachne that dared to challenge the gods. Arachne depicted gods—specifically Zeus, Athena’s dad—abusing mortal women. And she did so beyond well—are you following?" You put your hand out to make sure he was listening.

Jungwon grinned as he leaned in a little, eyes warm with amusement and interest. "Yes ma’am."

You beamed, encouraged. "So Athena was pissed because she saw that for one: Arachne not only outdid her—but also disrespected her and the gods with her tapestry. So she breaks Arachne’s loom, tears her tapestry, and beats her. Arachne—so humiliated—tries to hang herself but Athena stops her. Cursing her and turning her into the first spider."

Jungwon blinked. "Wow…"

"Mhm," You nodded, "This is where people say ‘arachnid’ and ‘arachnophobia’ originate. But in a way, it’s an onus probandi of how those in power treat others that just aren’t on their level. Just the overall politics behind it…"  

He hummed thoughtfully, letting the silence fill with your excitement. "So it wasn’t about arrogance?" Jungwon smiled gently, enjoying your tirade. And while the story itself was dark—seeing you feel fulfilled at getting to recount something you knew felt good enough.

"Actually no," you shook your head, pursing your lips as you tried to mentally unravel. "It’s just more so about the discomfort. Like the dissonance of it. Athena knew what was wrong, but seeing yourself in the mirror isn’t always nice."

He already knew that—all of it. You spotted Metamorphoses tucked between a collection of Yeats and some worn poetry journals on the shelf behind him. But you didn’t call him out. Didn’t ruin the game. Instead, you just let yourself enjoy the way he looked at you like every word out of your mouth was brand new.

It hit you then, quietly, how carefully he was listening. Not out of obligation, or boredom disguised as politeness. He was fully tuned in—not just to the story, but to you. And maybe it was the tea, or the late hour, or the way your hand had still not quite forgotten the shape of his—but the realization made your chest feel a little too full.

So you smiled, softer this time, letting your eyes drop from his face to the spine of that familiar book. You said nothing.

But a part of you—traitorous and stupidly hopeful—filed it away anyway.

—

Riki walked back to his dorm as he’s never felt so sick to his stomach in his life.

Seriously, you like Dr. Yang? Even if you denied it, he could tell. How you were just left unattended in his office, laid up on his couch, a random book on your lap? He saw the tenderness in your eyes, how protective you already were of him. The way you said his name like if you did then all of your prayers would be answered. A part of Riki knew that he had nothing to worry about, you were the student and he was the professor, the educator. As young as he is and as much as he’s accomplished thus far, there’s no way he’d throw all of that away for you. Someone like you.

You were awkward, had low self-esteem, anxious, and only mildly neurotic. Okay, maybe a little more than mild but it was sort of endearing. At least to Riki. Actually, what did that fucking dork do to deserve you? Riki’s been here all along. Doing his best to be a friend, he hasn’t been the best but that’s okay! At least you have someone beside yourself.

Sure, Jungwon was cool. Funny, warm, radiant, irritatingly handsome, and everything that anyone could swoon over. He was accomplished and considerate. 

All of the things that Riki was or could be. He just so desperately wished you could see it. 

Yes, he sort of bullied you. He did call you pathetic and frequently belittled you, but it was all in good fun. He got off on seeing you cower, see that fear in your eyes when he even looked at you for more than three seconds. Riki entered his dorm, slamming the heavy metal door behind him as he slid out of his sneakers. Stepping out of them by leaning his weight on the back of them, then recklessly throwing his sweater down on the floor. Pacing the space between his bed and the desk, he ran his hand through his hair as he felt himself slightly tugging at the roots of it. His breath was labored, stomach burning and twisting, hands shaking, sweat building on his forehead. Riki was losing himself, falling short of the cool façade that he had always been so good at maintaining. 

He was unraveling.

And for what? A girl who flinched when he raised his voice? Who could barely hold eye contact when he leaned in too close?

But still—you were his. Not officially, not romantically, maybe not even in any real way that held weight in the world outside his head. But in his gut, deep in that dark, corrosive part of him, Riki knew: you belonged to him. Not in the healthy, reasonable way. In the ‘you get under my skin and I don’t know how to live without it’ kind of way. The kind of way that made him feel both powerful and powerless all at once. He clenched his fists and sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing his knee, shaking. He couldn’t get your face out of his head—the way you smiled at Jungwon, that stupid, soft, precious smile like you trusted him.

It made Riki’s stomach churn. Because he knew what that trust looked like on you. How rare it was. And how quickly it could be broken.

"Fuck," he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. His voice was hoarse with resentment, like the emotion had been smoking cigarettes in his chest all night. "No, no, no."

He couldn’t stop thinking: did Jungwon touch you?

Not like that. No—God, he hoped not like that. But like...did he touch your hand? Your arm? Did you let him? Did you lean into it?

Riki leaned forward though, elbows on his knees, eyes dark as they burned into the floor.

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

But what if you already did?

What if you looked at Jungwon the way you used to look at him?

Before all of this, you used to look at him shyly. That at the beginning, the little banter and wit used to be fun. Beneath the little competition was some sort of lightness. But even before that, Riki could tell that you had thought he was cute at least, a little crush. Which he’s used to from people. Lingering glances, how your posture shifted talking to him, you could never look him in the eye as you laughed softly at his jokes even when he wasn’t trying. But he saw you struggling to make friends, struggling to get on with your peers. Getting rejected left and right by others and a part of him wanted to step in to defend you. To tell them that you weren’t weird or a loser. But he never did, he just agreed with them. He conformed and followed along with them because he’d rather be accepted by all than just you. Someone miniscule that was easily forgotten to most. 

But not him, never him.

You were never forgettable to Riki. You were the first one to laugh at his jokes before you even really knew him. The one who always showed up on time, even when nobody else did. Who had a weird way of tapping your fingers when you were anxious and tried to act like it was just fidgeting. You were so easy to read and so damn hard to shake. So yeah, maybe he liked when you looked at him like he could ruin you. Maybe he leaned into it. Maybe he said things that made you flinch—watched you crumble just a little, because it meant you were still his. Still reacting to him.

He didn’t even care what he said to you, he just cared that this beautiful girl that didn’t comprehend her beauty—was reacting to him. He had gotten used to your attention and affections and hated how dependent he was on you for that high every single time. Jungwon didn’t understand it, at least not from his perspective. And he never would, he’d never understand what you and Riki had. 

But he was going to make him understand.

—

Do you ever get a sense of impending doom?

Like you wake up with a pit in your stomach and you can’t explain why. Nothing has happened yet, but something feels…off. Like the day has already decided it’s going to go badly and you’re just the last one to find out.

Those are the kinds of days where everything starts slightly wrong.

Your phone dies overnight even though you swear you plugged it in. The sky outside is gray and heavy, but you convince yourself it’s fine—until you step outside and realize it’s way colder than it looked from the window. Too late to go back for a jacket now, because your class is all the way across campus and you’ve already been late twice this week.

So you suck it up. It’s fine. You’ll deal with it. Maybe eat some ginger later so you don’t catch a cold.

Just this cloud looming over your head as it dampened a side of you that tried to mask. But that’s all you could do right now, nothing bizarre happened. Nothing that could start to have you misaligned. At least not now anyway.

—

Across campus, Jungwon was being called into the dean’s office.

He hadn’t thought much of the email at first. It had come in early that morning while he was reviewing lecture notes, subject line simple and clinical: Please stop by my office when you have a moment.Not unusual. Professors were called in all the time for scheduling issues, department updates, student concerns.

Still, something about the wording had been…oddly stiff.

Jungwon adjusted the strap of his bag as he walked down the administrative hallway, the quiet there always a little heavier than the rest of campus. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps.

When he reached the door, he knocked twice.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

Jungwon stepped in with a polite smile already prepared. "Good morning, Dean Park. You wanted to see—"

He stopped when he noticed the expression on the Dean’s face. Not cavalier, not angry. Just stern. Too serious for a routine check-in. "Please," Dean Park said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Jungwon sat. And that was when the pit started forming in his stomach too.

"So…Mr. Yang—it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with one of your students outside of class." He straightens, folding his hands on the mahogany desk. The only noise being the pendulum on the other end of it. 

Jungwon blinked. "I’m sorry?"

"A report was filed this morning." 

"I…" Jungwon shook his head in disbelief, silence insisting as he tried to formulate a semblance of a word. His mind was scrambling to catch up with what he’d just heard. "I’m not sure what you mean by ‘outside of class,’ sir. And what report?"

Dean Park studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.

"A student has expressed concern," he said carefully. "Specifically regarding the nature of your interactions with them in your office."

Jungwon’s stomach dropped. Your face flashed across his mind before he could stop it. He sat up a little straighter in the chair. "With respect, Dean Park," he said, voice steadier than he felt, "my office hours are open to any student who needs help. If someone came to speak with me about coursework or academic concerns, that’s well within university policy."

The dean didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he opened a folder sitting on his desk. "That may be," he said slowly. "However, the report suggests the interactions may have gone beyond that."

"Again, sir. I’m not sure what you—"

"Mr. Yang."

Dean Park’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm enough to cut cleanly through the room. "This is a serious allegation."

He folded his hands again, fingers steepled now as he regarded Jungwon across the desk.

"I am not making any conclusions about your guilt at this time," he continued evenly. "But if the claims outlined in this report are accurate, the repercussions would be…significant."

Jungwon felt his stomach twist. Significant. That word alone carried enough weight to sink a career.

"Which is why," Dean Park said, tapping the folder lightly with one finger, "I need you to be completely honest with me."

A beat passed.

"Have you been meeting privately with this or any student outside of your scheduled office hours?"

Jungwon’s heart was beating in his ears, drowning out of the click-clacking of the pendulum on the desk. For the first time in a very long time could he finally identify what it felt like to be a fucking hypocrite.

He has a PhD in Theology. 

Years of his life were spent studying moral philosophy, religious ethics, the long, complicated history of human temptation and restraint. He had written entire papers about the responsibility people carried when placed in positions of power. About the dangers of blurred boundaries. About the quiet arrogance of believing you were the exception to the rule.

If Jungwon knew anything besides Greek mythology, it was that people rarely believed they were doing something wrong while they were doing it.

It always started smaller than that. A conversation that lasted a little longer than it should. A door left closed instead of open. A student lingering on the couch while he pretended not to notice how comfortable the moment had become.

None of it had felt inappropriate at the time. But sitting here now, under the weight of Dean Park’s gaze, it suddenly looked very different. Jungwon swallowed.

"No." He shook his head. "No. I’ve never spent time with any student outside of my office hours."

—

You got up to your usual routine. Despite the nagging feeling—you had deadlines. The agitating, fluorescent lights above hummed in the quiet library. 

In the small nook that you were in, there weren’t many people in your line of sight. All you could see where the metal shelves were starting to collect dust. The setting sun that shone through the stained glass window reminded you of just how old this building was. The table you sat at, so small—but just enough space for you and your laptop. Which was all you needed right now. 

You typed, typed, and typed away but felt you weren’t getting anywhere. The cogs in your brain were useless without some sort of direction. You kept typing, then deleting, typing half sentences—then rearranging them. Writing things that really had no meaning. 

Fuck…this is pointless.

With a grunt, you closed the lid of your laptop. Sighing, as you pout—leaning against the back of your chair—and hold your head. Eyes looking down as they trace every last detail of the wooden table—you could practically feel your head throbbing from the outside. You were hard pressed for these deadlines and you had the motivation. But nothing to help you to actually conceptualize it and put your words to text. Not a single coherent thought to put on the page. 

But fortunately, you had as much luck as a broken mirror.

It happened in a flash. You closed your eyes, blinking as you started to carefully massage your temples. Then the moment you opened them again—a strong hand was played firmly on the table. Right before your eyes.

Only then did you flinch, placing your hand on your heart as you gasped. "Oh shit!" 

A slow chuckle followed. "Relax," Riki said, pulling the chair across from you without asking. "So jumpy…"

He leaned his elbows on the table, eyes flicking over your laptop.

"Still stuck on that paper?" he asked lightly. "You’ve been staring at that screen for, what…twenty minutes now?"

Your eyes flit to the side, "you’ve been watching me for twenty minutes…?" You didn’t think your instincts were so inconsistent.

He interlocked his fingers together, setting his chin on them as he shrugged. A small smirk playing on his face. His eyes glinted, like there was a fun little secret that he just couldn’t wait to share. 

"What do you want, Riki?" You huffed, rubbing your eyes as they burned from staring into the bright screen. 

For once, he smiled. Genuinely. A small flutter in his stomach as he finds that his mood lifts. "Nothing. I just…wanted to see what you had planned this weekend."

You blinked at him, that wasn’t the answer you expected. Your brows knit together slightly. "Why?"

Riki shrugged, leaning back in the chair like he had all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over his knee, posture loose, relaxed. "I was thinking," he said, tapping his fingers once against the table, "maybe we could hang out."

You couldn’t remember the last time Riki had asked to spend time with you without it sounding like a challenge or a joke at your expense. If anything, he was the one daring other people to talk to you. He was seconds from putting a ‘kick me’ sign on your back.

Your gaze drifted down to the table. "That’s…random," you murmured.

"Is it?" His tone was light.

When you didn’t immediately answer, Riki tilted his head slightly, watching you the way someone watches a puzzle they’ve already solved. "You look tired," he added.

Your shoulders stiffened a little. "I’m just stressed about this paper."

"Ah." His gaze flicked to your laptop again. "For Dr. Yang’s class, right?"

Your fingers paused against the edge of the table. "…Yeah."

"Well, I’m sure he’s in his office now." Riki nods to the exit. "I can walk you over—"

"What’s wrong with you? We’re not friends. Nor do you actually give a fuck about me, Riki." You squint, shaking your head in disbelief. 

He hums out a small laugh. "On the contrary, sweetheart. I actually care more than you think." He lets his hands go, rolling up his sleeves as he extends his long arms across the table. Flashing his strong arms and even flashier, silver watch. Without another word, he carefully grabs your hands. Tracing your knuckles with his thumbs as he feels himself start to feel a sense of vindication. He’s close. So close to you and he can feel it. Physically and in any other sense.  Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him across the small table, the faint scent of his cologne, the steady pressure of his hands holding yours in place. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

And something in his expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Like a tension finally easing beneath the surface.

Like something had just fallen into place.Riki’s thumbs were still tracing slow circles over your knuckles. "You know," he said lightly, like he was commenting on the weather, "people talk a lot on this campus."

Your brows pulled together. "What are you—"

A phone buzzed somewhere behind you.

Then another.

And another.

The quiet corner of the library shifted almost instantly. A couple of students near the shelves lifted their heads, glancing down at their screens. Someone whispered something under their breath. You barely noticed at first. Your attention was still caught on the strange look in Riki’s eyes. "Especially about professors," he added.

That made you pause. "…What?"

Riki didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifted past your shoulder, watching the room like he was waiting for something to happen.

Another phone buzzed on the table behind you.

"Did you see this?" someone whispered.

"No way…"

"Wait—is that the same guy from the theology department?"

Your stomach tightened. Slowly, you pulled one of your hands free from Riki’s grip and reached for your phone beside the laptop.

The screen lit up with a flood of notifications.

Department announcements. A campus forum thread climbing rapidly with new replies. Your chest felt suddenly tight as you opened the first message.

Campus Notice – Department of Religious Studies

Professor Jungwon Yang has been placed under temporary administrative review following allegations of inappropriate conduct with a student. Until further notice, all classes and office hours under his supervision are suspended.

For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.

You read them again.

And again.

Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs. "That’s…" you whispered.

Your vision flickered across the screen as more messages poured in.

Didn’t he just start teaching here? I heard it was with a student from one of his level one classes. Apparently someone reported seeing them alone in his office.

The air around you suddenly felt too thin. "That’s not—" Your voice cracked.

Across the table, Riki finally leaned back in his chair—letting your hand go. He looked almost relaxed now. Like someone who had just finished something difficult.

Or satisfying. "You okay?" he asked casually.

You looked up at him, eyes wide.

And for the first time that day, the pit in your stomach dropped all the way to the bottom. Because Riki wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. "Did…did you do this?" Your voice gave a little, heart thumping loudly in your ears that even if he were to answer—you may not even hear him. 

Riki didn’t immediately respond.

Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you pushed back from the table. "Oh my god," you whispered. Your hands moved on instinct—shoving the laptop into the sleeve, fumbling as you tried to force it into your backpack. Your fingers wouldn’t cooperate, trembling so badly you nearly dropped the zipper. "God, no. No, no, no." Your vision blurred suddenly, the shelves and tables melting into indistinct shapes as your eyes burned. "This isn’t real," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Across the table, Riki finally stood. "Hey," he said quietly.

The sound of his voice made something inside you snap.

You shook your head, stepping back from the table like distance might somehow fix this. "Don’t," you choked. "Don’t talk to me right now." Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t pull in enough air. "Don’t talk to me ever."

You brush past him, throwing your backpack over your shoulder as you hurried to the exit. Speedwalking to your—rather, someone else’s—demise. 

Riki didn’t follow.

He just stood there for a moment, the faint warmth of where you’d been still lingering in the air between the table and his chest.

Slowly, he inhaled. Your perfume clung faintly to the fabric of his sleeve where your shoulder had brushed past him. His eyes closed.

For a second, the chaos of the library—the whispers, the buzzing phones, the shifting chairs—faded into background noise. All that remained was the echo of you leaving.

Riki opened his eyes again, staring at the empty doorway. Then, almost absently, he dragged his thumb across his knuckles—the same place he’d been tracing yours minutes ago.

—

Oxygen didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to you anymore as you ran halfway across campus—haphazardly knocking into people, you wouldn’t be surprised if your laptop had a dent in it the way that it hit a lightpost. 

The elevator was too slow. So you took the stairs. 

By the third flight your lungs burned, breath scraping your throat like sandpaper. 

When the top of the stairs came on the horizon, your legs felt like Jell-O, threatening to buckle beneath you. You caught yourself on the rusted handrail, fingers slipping against the cold metal. The stairwell reeked faintly of bleach and something salty—old sweat soaked into concrete. Your lungs burned, each breath scraping painfully through your chest until your vision blurred at the edges.

But you couldn’t stop moving.

Your footsteps echoed too loudly in the concrete shaft and finally, you opened the door to look side-to-side—scanning the hallway only to find it empty. Almost ghostly.

But the fluorescent lights sang above your head as you ran down the hall. 

When you’d make your way down this hall, you used to associate it with excitement. Comfort. A slight feeling in your stomach that you didn’t know how to put your finger on.  It was the hallway where you’d first knocked nervously on his door.

Where he’d opened it with that warm, patient smile—like he had nowhere else to be, like your questions actually mattered.

Where conversations that were supposed to last ten minutes stretched into an hour without either of you noticing.

You used to slow down when you got close to his office.

Now you were sprinting.

Your shoes squeaked sharply against the polished floor as you turned the final corner—

—and stopped.

The door to his office stood closed. 

And through the small window in the door, you saw Jungwon’s back turned. He reached for various books on the shelf behind his desk as he tossed them haphazardly into a cardboard box. Like it didn’t matter anymore. For a moment, you didn’t move. You just stared.

The familiar office looked wrong somehow. Half the shelves were already empty, papers stacked in uneven piles across the desk. The couch where you’d spent so many afternoons sat untouched in the corner, a forgotten book still resting on the armrest.

Your throat tightened.

He picked up another book.

Paused.

Then set it down harder than necessary inside the box. The sound carried faintly through the door.

Something in your chest twisted painfully. You lifted your hand before you even realized you were doing it.

Your knuckles hovered inches from the wood. For a second, you hesitated.

Then you knocked.

Jungwon froze.

His shoulders went rigid, hand still resting on the edge of the box. Slowly, he turned toward the door—and when his eyes met yours through the small window the color drained from his face. The springs in the door handle creaked as you slowly opened the door. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Jungwon stood behind his desk, one hand still resting on the edge of the cardboard box. A few books were stacked unevenly inside—some of them you recognized instantly from the shelves you’d spent so much time staring at while pretending not to be nervous.

The room felt smaller now.

Too quiet.

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath from the run up the stairs, but it still felt like there wasn’t enough air in the world.

"Jungwon—" Your voice cracked, as you slowly shut the door with a click.

"It’s Dr. Yang." He said immediately. "And I’d rather you left the door open, thank you."

The words landed like a slap as your hand froze on the handle.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, stiffly, you pulled the door back open. The hallway outside hummed faintly with distant footsteps and muffled voices—proof that anyone could walk past and look inside.

You swallowed hard. "…Right."

Jungwon turned back to the box on his desk, picking up another book like the conversation was already over.

But his movements weren’t steady.

The book slipped slightly in his grip before he forced it into the box. "You shouldn’t be here," he repeated, quieter this time.

"Look, I didn’t report you." You sniffled, wiping your eyes as you wrapped your arms around yourself. That was the only form of self-soothing that you knew. "I wouldn’t do that."

"Well it doesn’t matter what you would and wouldn’t do. Because I’m out of here." He huffed, brushing his hair back and out of his face.

"What…?" Your eyes widened.

"I’ve been suspended." The words hung in the air. "Indefinitely."

"Ju—Dr. Yang," your voice shook as you tried to stifle your tears. "I’m so sorry—"

"Don’t bother," he smiled bitterly, the small dimples of his hardly showing were your surefire sign that he wasn’t as fine as he says. "This was my fault."

You shook your head frantically, "it’s not. Riki. It was him!" Your eyes stung with tears again as your breath started to thin. "It’s him! Always!" Letting out a sob as you gestured around the room. Not even caring, you shut the door to his dismay.

Jungwon’s hands froze mid-motion, a stack of papers trembling slightly in his grip. He took a sharp breath, forcing his voice to remain calm, but it carried a weight you could feel. "Riki?" His eyes searched yours, dark and unblinking. "He…did this?"

You nodded, hiccuping between sobs. "He always does! I didn’t even—he just—he…" You broke off, shoving your hands into your hair as if you could pull the chaos out of your head. "I’m telling you—I told you! He’s sick. He’s a sadistic asshole and that’s why I didn’t want you to say anything to him because he does…this!" You gesture to him. His cluttered desk. His nearly empty bookshelf. The plaques with his degrees and certifications that could mean absolutely nothing if things went even more left.

Jungwon’s eyes darkened, the dimples in his cheeks vanishing as his jaw tightened. He took a step closer, the office suddenly feeling smaller, tighter, suffocating even. "I…I had no idea it was this bad," he murmured, voice low, almost hoarse. "I thought…I thought it was just typical college rivalry nonsense. But this—"

You hiccuped again, trembling, and buried your face in your hands. "It’s not just nonsense! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He manipulates, bullies…he—he makes people fear him, including me. I—I shouldn’t have let him…I shouldn’t—" You sat down on the worn couch, burying your head in your lap as you locked your hands over your head. "I shouldn’t have dragged you into my shit. I’m so sorry." Your chest felt like an elephant sat on top of it, lurching as you wept into your jeans. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—"

Jungwon crouched down in front of the couch, careful not to loom over you too much. "Hey," he said softly, one hand hovering near yours before settling gently on your shoulder. "Stop apologizing. You didn’t drag me into anything. I…I wanted to help. That’s what friends do."

You shook your head violently, muffled sobs wracking your body. "No, you don’t understand. He—he’s…he’s not someone you deal with." Your words cracked and failed you, a choked gasp escaping instead. "He’s just—pure evil. He hates me. And he’s taking it out on you now."

Jungwon’s jaw tightened, a flash of anger flaring in his eyes, but he kept his voice low and steady. "I don’t care what he is. I care about you. And I’m not going anywhere."

You sniffled, trying to pull your hands from your face, but his presence made it harder to look away. "You can’t. You won’t be around and nearly everything in your life is about to crumble. E-everything you worked so hard for—" Shaking your head as tears come down in sheets.

"Look…if it gives you any consolation—" He sighed, closing his eyes as he felt the emotion build up further in his chest. "Gosh…" Turning his gaze away, dabbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers. 

Until he turned back to you with a small smile, huffing as he steadied himself. "If it gives you any consolation…" He carefully grabs your dampened, sweaty hands. Any other time he’d be repulsed, but he couldn’t help but overlook it all. "I’m not your professor anymore. So…I can be here for you." He nods slowly, patiently. "I can be here for you like I should. Like…like I’ve wanted to all along."

"Was my name on the report?" you barely choked out. "Was there—"

"To protect the identities of everyone involved, they won’t tell me who filed it," he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped.

"But," he continued, squeezing your hands once, gently, "they also won’t tell me who the student is supposed to be."

Your brows knitted together, confused.

"They’re treating it like a formal complaint," he explained. "Anonymous. Third-party report. Which means someone claimed they witnessed something."

Your breath caught. The name didn’t even need to be spoken. Jungwon watched the realization move across your face and his jaw tightened slightly.

"Hey," he said softly, grounding your hands again. "Look at me."

You forced your eyes up.

"This is important," he continued. "You were not named. And as long as you stay out of it, there’s a good chance they won’t drag you into the investigation."

"But they will drag you," you whispered.

A flicker of something tired crossed his face. "Yes," he admitted. "But that’s my problem to deal with," he added. "Not yours."

Your eyes filled again. "But it is mine," you insisted hoarsely. "Because he did this to hurt me. And now you’re—" Your voice cracked. "—paying for it."

For a moment Jungwon didn’t say anything. Then he shook his head slowly. "No," he said. His grip on your hands tightened just a little. "I made my own choices."

Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice.

"I let you stay here longer than I should have," he admitted softly. "I closed the door sometimes. I blurred lines that were supposed to stay very clear."

He exhaled through his nose. "So if someone decided to twist that into something else…" His shoulders lifted in a tired shrug. "…then I suppose I gave them the thread."

"Why—how is it that bad? It wasn’t like we were…inappropriate or anything?" You scoot over on the couch, making space for him to sit beside you.

Jungwon hesitated for a second before lowering himself down next to you. The cushions dipped slightly under his weight. "A bit," he said quietly. "But inappropriate isn’t just physical." He rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at the floor. "But universities don’t really wait for something to happen," he continued. "They step in when something looks like it could."

Your stomach twisted.

"They said it was a ‘boundary concern,’" he added with a dry huff. "A professor spending extended time alone with a student. Door closed. Personal conversations outside coursework. Allowing you to stay here in my absence." His fingers rubbed together absentmindedly, like he was still processing it. "To them, that’s enough. And realistically that is unethical. But again, that’s on me."

"But that’s ridiculous," you whispered.

"Maybe," he shrugged slightly. "But you have to understand, it’s not like this is high school where you’re a kid and I’m this age. That’s illegal and unethical and immoral and all of the other disgusting things. You and I are both adults and it’s not immoral and illegal. It’s simply unethical due to perceived power imbalances. Things like that could make one believe that I took advantage of you, coerced you, among other things."

You heard him. Understood him in full totality. But being a part of it was a very different feeling. Jungwon was three years older than you; it doesn’t sound crazy but you just hated that this was the reality of the situation. You wanted to refute it. To say that that’s incorrect because there was no coercion, mild flirting—maybe—but these rules are in place to protect others. And you were smart enough to know that. “I’d just hate for you to be angry at me.”

Jungwon leaned back slightly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "I’m not angry at you," he said gently. "I could never be. No matter how much I could even think to try—I couldn’t."

Your throat tightened. "I know," you murmured, even though the guilt still sat heavy in your chest.

For a moment neither of you spoke. 

Then his voice softened a little more. "And for what it’s worth…" he said, looking at you fully now, "I don’t regret the time we spent together."

Your eyes flickered to his. "You don’t?"

"No." He smiles softly, lifting his hand to place it on your hair, stroking it gently. "Not for a second." His voice broke as tears built up. Rather than his chest hurting, his stomach did.

Right as he looked you in the eye. In your red, swollen eyes. He saw everything that he worked for. Every accolade, every all-nighter, every program and research opportunity he took—Jungwon saw all of it crumbling before his eyes right before him. Every fellowship application he rewrote six times before submitting. Every professor that told him that he was brilliant, promising, the future of academia as they knew it.

And he was easy, just like every other young man his age—hearing such praise made him feel some sort of satisfaction. His chest puffed from the battery in his back.

Up until now, he could only remember as far back as his lover phase. 

His father was his best friend. Seeing him go to work, come home to him and his mother to support and care for them. Taking him to baseball and hockey games at one point. And Jungwon didn’t even care for sports—just seeing his dad cheer and fist pump whenever his favorite team scored made him feel a sense of pride. Getting to sit on his shoulders because he was too small to see over the adults in front of him. The roar of the stadium. His father fist-pumping when their team scored. The way his mom laughed every time Jungwon tried to mimic him.

And the day a ball sailed over the fence—

Right into his hands.

He could still remember the shock of it. The weight of it in his palm. Like the whole stadium had turned and looked at him for a moment. 

And he didn’t even care, he clapped. And cheered and smiled wide, kid teeth missing and all as he ruminated in the feeling of accomplishment.

Jungwon blinked. The office came rushing back into focus. The half-empty bookshelves. The cardboard box. And you sitting beside him on the couch.

He almost forgot that his hand was in your hair. Skimming his hand over and carefully tangling in your curls. "It’s okay if you do," you said, clearing your throat. Your face felt tight, sticky with dried tears. "It’s okay if you regret it. Me."

Jungwon went still. For a second he just looked at you, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his brows drew together. "Regret you?" he repeated quietly.

Your gaze dropped to your hands. "Well…yeah." Your voice shrank a little. "You lost everything because of me."

A small breath left him—half disbelief, half something softer. "That’s not what happened."

You shook your head, stubborn even through the exhaustion. "It is."

He shifted slightly on the couch so he was facing you more fully now.

When you didn’t look up, his hand moved from your hair to your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. "I didn’t lose everything. The investigation is still ongoing and once they realize that I’m innocent and it didn’t go any further than me just providing sanctuary for you—then I’m still gonna be out of here anyway."

"No—out? Why—"

"It’s nothing for me to get another position," he said gently, shaking his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "My reputation would be cleared. I have a PhD. I could go anywhere. Do anything." His hand slipped from your chin to your cheek, cupping it lightly. "Research. Teaching somewhere else. Maybe even traveling."

The pad of his thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone, wiping away the dampness there. "No rules," he murmured, eyes wide with hope.

"What about me?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Jungwon’s thumb paused against your cheek. For a moment he didn’t answer. His eyes searched your face, like he was trying to figure out whether you realized what you’d just asked. "What about you?" he echoed softly.

Your stomach twisted. "If you leave," you said quietly, "then…that’s it, right?"

The room felt smaller somehow. Jungwon exhaled slowly through his nose. "No," he said after a moment.

Your eyes lifted to his again.

"It doesn’t have to be." His thumb resumed its slow, absentminded movement against your cheek, brushing away the last traces of tears. "I’m not your professor anymore," he reminded you gently. "Which means there aren’t any rules about where you and I stand."

Your heart gave a small, startled thump.

"I don’t expect anything from you," he added quickly. "Especially not right now. You’ve been through enough today." His hand finally dropped from your cheek, resting loosely on the couch between you.

"But if you’re asking whether I’d disappear from your life…" A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Just make sure you have your passport, okay?"

For the first time today, a small—extremely minute—hint of sunshine appeared over your cloudy mind. A sense of warmth lit up in your stomach now that your vision started to clear. You no longer saw blue and gray. 

Letting out a small laugh, "okay." 

"Okay?" he repeated, a little amused. His grin widened just slightly, dimples finally showing again as he leaned back into the couch. "That’s a pretty big commitment," he teased gently. "You didn’t even ask where we’d go."

You sniffled, wiping under your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. "Anywhere," you murmured. "I’d go anywhere."

Jungwon’s smile faltered a bit, his spine straightening as he perceived you. As if he could see the cloud above you lifting. "Can I hug you?" The question came out quieter than he probably intended.

For a second you just looked at him, like the idea hadn’t even crossed your mind until he said it out loud. Then you nodded. "Of course."

It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t hesitate. You just leaned toward him.

Jungwon opened his arms immediately, pulling you into him as gently as if you might break. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, curls brushing his jaw as his arms wrapped around your back.

He held you carefully at first. Then a little tighter.

Your shoulders shook once as the last of the day’s tension finally slipped out of you, but it wasn’t the kind of crying from earlier. It was quieter. Softer.

Jungwon’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, steady and warm. "We're gonna be okay," he murmured into your hair. "Everything will work itself out."

For a while neither of you said anything.

The office was still half empty. The cardboard box still sat on the desk. The future was still uncertain. But sitting there on the couch, wrapped up in each other, the world felt a little less like it was falling apart.

—

Every step you took down the hall and to the elevator felt like there were thirty pound weights on your ankles. Leaving that office felt like leaving behind a piece of your heart and you didn’t know what you’d do for the next weeks knowing that you couldn’t go back there. Regardless, looking Jungwon in the eye, seeing him reassure you despite how much even being in association with him screwed him over—you couldn’t help but feel a sense of indebtedness. On paper, yes, he should’ve known better. Yes, he should’ve ensured—as a professional that there were boundaries set in place. But when boundaries become blurry, you never know the line until you cross it. 

It wasn’t like you guys had sex. Kissed. Any of it.  But you couldn’t lie and say that there wasn’t intimacy. Talking about your interests. From the most surface level things to deep childhood lore.  Leaving you alone in his space, trusting you alone in his sanctuary. Letting you eat his snacks, touch his books and read them, nap on his couch. Spending hours talking about everything and nothing. 

It wasn’t romance. Not technically. But it also wasn’t nothing.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding. You stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor as the doors shut again with a soft thud. Your reflection stared back at you from the metal panels—eyes still puffy, curls slightly frizzed from where Jungwon’s fingers had been combing through them.

Your chest tightened again. Leaving that office felt wrong. Like abandoning something warm in the middle of winter. The elevator jerked softly as it reached the bottom floor.

Ding.

The doors slid open as cool air rushed in from the lobby as you stepped out, your mind still tangled in everything Jungwon had said. You pushed through the front doors to step outside and immediately stopped.

Riki was leaning against the metal railing at the bottom of the steps. Like he’d been there for a while. His eyes lifted the second the doors shut behind you. A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Wow," he said lazily.

His gaze dragged over your face—your swollen eyes, your flushed cheeks. "Looks like someone had a really productive meeting." Slowly, that hurt veered further along the spectrum of anger. But you were tired, exhausted. Worn down and ready to hit the transfer portal.

Seeing Riki wasn’t just bothersome anymore. Nor was it just inconveniencing. To put it simply, seeing him was like seeing a silhouette with flames around it. 

Your jaw tightened. For a moment you just stood there at the top of the steps, staring down at him.

Riki didn’t move. Didn’t even straighten up from where he leaned against the railing. He just watched you the same way someone watches a show they’ve already seen before. Waiting for their favorite part.

You descended the steps slowly. Each one felt deliberate. Heavy; and by the time you reached the bottom, you stopped a few feet away from him. Up close, the smugness in his expression was even worse. "What did you do?"

Riki tilts his head, almost amused. "That’s a pretty loaded question. I do a lot of things."

"What did you do to Dr. Yang?" You say slowly, each word dripping with venom.

"You’re so stupid." He shook his head, a repulsive smirk still insisting. "Thinking that he could ever actually care. Or give a fuck about you."

Your chest tightened. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise to your face. "Stop—"

"I'm not done."

Not a snap nor a threat. Just a fact, delivered the way you deliver something and finally decided to put it down. "I didn’t want this," Riki said. "Any of it. I actually liked him." His jaw shifted. "But I like you more."

"Don't—"

"You were going to get hurt." Still calm and speaking as if he was fully rational. "By him or someone else eventually. Someone was going to come along and see how easy you are to hold and just—" he exhaled through his nose, "—take advantage of that."

"So you did it first," you said. Your voice came out quieter than you wanted it to.

Something moved across his face. Something as simple as recognition. "Yeah," he said simply. "I did."

You laughed, and it came out broken. "You think that makes it okay."

"No." He said it without hesitation. "I think it makes you mine."

And there it was. The thing underneath the thing. Not an apology. Not a justification. Just ownership, plain and honest and completely terrifying.

"You have been making my life miserable," you said, and your voice cracked down the middle of it. "Since the day we got here. You made me scared to get out of bed. You made me cry myself to sleep. You made me feel like I was—" you shook your head, pressing your lips together because your eyes were burning and you refused, you absolutely refused, "—like I was nothing. Like I would always be nothing."

Riki looked at you. Just looked at you. "I know," he said quietly. And that was worse than any excuse he could've made.

"You don't get to just—" you started.

"You reorganize your pens when you’re anxious." His voice was different now. Lower. Almost careful, like he was handling something fragile. "Smallest to largest. Rainbow order. You do it without realizing." His eyes stayed on yours. "I’ve watched you do it a hundred times."

Your mouth closed.

"You eat the same thing when you’re stressed. You go to the quietest corner of the library when you need to think, not the closest one." Something shifted in his expression—so briefly, so terribly briefly—that it almost looked like tenderness. "Banana walnut. Not because it's your favorite. Because it's the one thing that tastes the same everywhere."

The world went very still. Because he was right. You'd never told anyone that. You'd never even said it out loud.

And for one second—just one—you saw him. Not the smirk or the cruelty or the years of damage he’d carved into you without apology. Just a boy who had been paying attention. Quietly, desperately, completely. A boy who knows you in a particular way you can only know someone you've been watching from a distance for far too long.

The boy who could have just been your friend.

It lasted exactly one second.

"I wanted to know everything," he said. And just like that the tenderness was gone, replaced by something rawer and more honest and so much worse. "I’m still dying to. Every single thing about you." His eyes darkened. "And I ruined it. I know I ruined it." A short, humorless breath. "But I couldn't just watch you walk around this campus like you were invisible and do nothing."

"So you made me scared of my own shadow." you whispered. "You made me afraid of you instead."

"I made you feel me." His voice dropped. "There's a difference."

"There isn't—"

"You felt everything." He stepped closer and you stepped back and the back of your heel caught the edge of the curb and you caught yourself and he watched all of it and kept coming anyway. "Every single day. Even now, you’re alive with it." His eyes burned into yours. "You’re not sleepwalking anymore."

"Don't come near me," you choked out, hand flying up between you. "I swear to God, don't you dare come near me."

He stopped.

Hands at his sides. Chest rising and falling. Eyes completely steady. "I love you," he said.

Not whispered. Not performed. Not offered with trembling hands or a breaking voice or any of the softness that would've made it easier to dismiss.

Just said. The way you say something you stopped needing anyone to validate a long time ago. And the worst part—the part that would keep you up at night long after all of this was over—was the ghost of that one second. The boy with the muffin and the quiet observations and the dying need to know more.

That boy loved you too. And he was the same person.

That was the thing you couldn't untangle. That was the thing that made your eyes sting and your hands shake and your heart do something awful and complicated in your chest. You understood him. God help you, for just one second, you understood him completely.

"I could never love you," you said. And you meant it entirely. And it cost you something anyway.

His jaw flexed once, fingers curling tighter at his sides until the knuckles blanched white. The street light caught the sheen in his eyes, but he blinked it away quickly, like even that small crack in his composure irritated him. "Fine. Be that way."

Riki shakes his head, brushing past you but stopping just short of being by your side. "But when he leaves…and he will," he said quietly.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His shoulder brushed the air beside yours as he stopped just short of passing you completely. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, but not touching. "When he leaves," he continued, voice low and steady, "don’t pretend you didn’t know it was coming."

Your chest tightened. "He’s not leaving me," you snapped, even though the words sounded thinner than you wanted them to.

Riki gave a short, humorless laugh. "He’s leaving the entire campus."

"That’s not the same thing."

"It’s exactly the same thing."

Now he turned his head slightly, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. "You think he’s going to build his life around you?" he asked. He continued. "You think when his reputation clears he’s going to stay here for the girl who got tangled up in the scandal that almost destroyed him?"

Your throat tightened. "He said—"

"He said a lot of things, didn’t he?" Riki cut in softly. His gaze flicked up toward Jungwon’s office window again.

"Men say a lot when the moment is right," he murmured. "Especially when someone’s crying in front of them. Believe me, I’d know."

Your stomach twisted. "Shut up." But your voice didn’t have much strength behind it anymore.

Riki watched you for a second longer. But right as he passed your shoulder, he leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.

"And when he’s gone," he said, "when the office is empty and he’s halfway across the world chasing the next thing…"

Your breath caught.

"…you’ll finally understand what I’ve been trying to tell you."

He straightened again and kept walking down the pathway. "You don’t belong in someone’s temporary life." His footsteps echoed against the concrete as he moved farther away. "You belong with someone who refuses to leave.”

—

The parking lot was almost empty by the time he stepped outside.

Most of the faculty had already gone home, the last bands of orange daylight long gone behind the buildings. The lamps along the lot buzzed faintly overhead, casting long pale cones of light across the asphalt. Jungwon walked slowly, the cardboard box balanced against his hip. The edges of the flaps had started to soften where his fingers had been gripping them all afternoon. Inside were the small things he hadn’t bothered leaving behind in the office—books he’d bought with his own money, a framed photo of his parents from a few years ago, a notebook full of half-finished research ideas.

His car sat alone near the far end of the row.

For a moment he just stood there, looking at it.

The silence of the campus at night felt different now. Emptier. Like something had already ended even though the official words hadn’t been spoken yet.

He popped the trunk. The lid lifted with a quiet metallic click.

Jungwon set the box down carefully inside, adjusting it so it wouldn’t slide when he drove. One of the books tipped sideways and he righted it automatically, pressing it back into place.

When he lowered the trunk again, the sound echoed softly through the lot. He exhaled, fiddling with the keyfob to unlock the driver’s seat.

Footsteps.

Fast. Thumping rapidly into the concrete.

Before his brain could even register the direction, a hand seized the front of his coat and slammed him backward against the car.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

Metal rang sharply behind his shoulders as Jungwon’s head snapped slightly to the side before he steadied himself, one hand instinctively coming up against the hood to keep his balance.

Riki’s grip tightened in his jacket, twisting his fist as he gathered his collar. "So. You figured it out. Congratulations."

For a second he said nothing. No struggle. No attempt to shove Riki off him.

He just huffed. Then, quietly: "I didn’t have to figure anything out."

Riki’s mouth twitched. "Oh?" His grip twisted tighter in the fabric of Jungwon’s coat. "So you’re saying you always knew?"

Jungwon didn’t answer right away. The parking lot lights flickered overhead, pale against the dark.

Finally—

"Yes."

That seemed to take a little wind out of Riki’s sails. His brows pulled together, like he’d expected anger. Or accusations. Something louder. But he could feel it. He could if he just kept pushing. "You’re not even going to ask why?" Riki said.

Jungwon studied him for a moment.

Up close, Riki looked worse than he had any other time he’d seen him—eyes bright in a way that didn’t look like excitement so much as exhaustion stretched too tight. "I’ve gotten all the information that I needed." The elder’s eyes veered off, refusing to look the manic person before him in the eye. Jungwon swipes the younger’s hand off of him. "Let me make something clear. I am an adult. I don’t play kid games, Mr. Nishimura."

Riki’s hand hung in the air for a second after Jungwon brushed it off. Then a slow smile crept onto his face. "There’s nothing kid-like about me."

Jungwon’s gaze slid back to him slowly. For a moment he didn’t speak, like he was deciding whether the comment deserved a response at all. Then his eyes drifted down Riki’s rumpled jacket, the tight set of his shoulders, the barely-contained agitation vibrating through him. "I’m aware," Jungwon said evenly. He reached up, smoothing the crease Riki had left in his collar. "There’s nothing childish about impulsivity, entitlement, or obsession. Adults display those traits every day."

Riki’s smile sharpened. "You’re talking about yourself now?"

Jungwon gave a faint breath through his nose that almost resembled a laugh. "No." His voice stayed calm, controlled. "I’m talking about you."

That landed squarely. Riki’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.

Jungwon continued like he was explaining something in a lecture hall. "As if proximity is intimacy?" His eyes lifted, finally meeting Riki’s again. “Me being there for her doesn’t mean that anything transpired.”

Riki scoffed, but there was an edge to it now. "You think you’re better than me or something?"

Jungwon tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing in confusion.

"See?" Riki shrugs, gesturing to him. "This is exactly it. You pride yourself on being so articulate. A-and well read and knowledgeable but you don’t know the first thing about her—"

"You don’t know the first thing about me." Jungwon says sharply, his voice not daring to touch a higher decibel. 

"But I know that you aren’t as aware as you think." Riki’s face twisted in disgust. "There was no intimacy, are you serious?"

Jungwon’s eyes hardened slightly.

Riki let out a humorless laugh, pacing once in front of the car before turning back to him again. "Oh, right," he said, nodding slowly. "You’re going to pretend it was—what? Academic mentorship? Professional concern?" His hands spread in a mocking gesture. "You’re not any better than me. You’re just nice to her."

Jungwon didn’t move.

"You let her cry to you," Riki continued. "Let her nap on your couch like it was her living room."

His eyes burned now, sharp and restless. "You thought about her when she wasn’t around. Huh? Probably thought about how she tasted."

Jungwon’s jaw shifted slightly. "Careful," he said quietly.

Riki kept on. "Didn’t open the windows after she left your office. Wanting her scent to linger in the room."

The elder’s brows furrowed at the extremity. He wasn't this obsessive.

"Her laugh rang like a song that’s been stuck in your head for hours. Days." He pushed. "That look in her eye when she gets so excited about whatever she’s rambling about just makes you feel so…complete. Whole." Riki’s eyes darkened. "Yeah well I never got to look her in the eye. I always had to experience it through the lens of someone else!" His hand comes down on the top of Jungwon’s sedan.

The sound of his palm against the metal rang out and then dissolved into the quiet of the lot. Jungwon didn’t flinch.

"And you just—what? See I knew you were gonna be a problem. Thinking you could step to me like some knight in shining armor—well let me tell you something, Professor, she doesn’t need saving. She needs someone who’s gonna stay."

The elder man’s head tilted though his voice remained calm and gentle. "Why?"

Riki blinked. "What?"

"Why does she need someone who stays?" Jungwon’s voice was the same temperature it always was. Like he had nowhere else to be. "Why is that the thing you keep coming back to?"

"Because—" Riki started, then stopped.

The lot hummed quietly around them.

"Because everyone leaves her," he said finally. Quieter. Like the anger had found a hole somewhere and started draining out of it. "Everyone always has. No friends after high school, terrible relationship with her family. And she acts like it doesn’t bother her but it does. It—" He exhaled hard through his nose. "She puts up with it because she thinks that's just how it goes for her."

Jungwon said nothing.

"And you’re just gonna be another one," Riki continued, but the certainty in it had gone soft at the edges. "Another person that made her feel like she mattered and then disappeared."

"Maybe," Jungwon said again. Simply.

Riki’s eyes snapped up. "That doesn’t bother you?"

"It bothers me deeply." He held Riki's gaze. "Which is why I’m not disappearing."

Riki stared at him. Looking away and clenching his fists in a feeble attempt at masking his tornado of emotions. 

"So…what’s making you treat her this way? Since you seem to care so much, why hinder her from making friends? Why try to steal any and every chance of opportunity from beneath her?"

Riki’s laugh came out thin and hollow. "I don’t—that’s not what I was doing."

Jungwon just waited, leaning against the car. And that was just the thing about him that Riki hated. He never filled silences with noise. Simply gave you all the space in the world and let you meet him where he was. 

But the silence was insisting. Insisting on letting Riki marinate in his own wrongdoings. Not mistakes. Wrongdoings.

"I was…" He shakes his head slowly, in partial disbelief. "I loved her the best way I knew how." Letting his hands down by his sides in defeat. "Fuck…" He covered his eyes with his hands as he inhaled sharply. "I tried. I really…I loved her the best way I—" Riki’s breath came out uneven, shoulders curling forward like his body was trying to protect something it had already lost. His hands hung at his sides, useless. Eyes wet and jaw tight and nowhere to put any of it.

Jungwon looked at him for a long moment. Taking in the state of him not from the perspective of a student—a human being rather. Head hung, fists clenched as the younger man stood there with what seemed to be the world on his shoulders. Like his brain was cut right in half and both sides were processing different things. Different emotions. 

Shame, embarrassment, especially when you felt you were at a point of no return. Riki knew now more than ever that it was over. His time, his reign over your heart and mind was now over. No more. The empire has collapsed.

Jungwon shook his head, pitying him but it wasn’t like he’d let Riki know that. He was just as prideful as the next man. Fragile; and even then, finally coming to a realization. So he closed the distance and put his arms around him.

It wasn’t soft or comforting in any way. A hand pressed firmly between Riki’s shoulder blades. Reminding him to stay in his body. Even if it felt like it was all over. Riki went rigid for a half second, every instinct in him rearing up against it.

But then something just...gave. His forehead dropped to Jungwon’s shoulder and he exhaled—this long, wrecked, shuddering thing that had probably been living in his chest for years. His fingers curled into the fabric of the older man’s coat and he didn’t say anything because there was nothing left to say.

Jungwon didn’t say anything either. Just held him. One hand steady on his back, the other still at his shoulder. It lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Then Jungwon stepped back. Straightened his coat. Looked at Riki the same way he always looked at him—clear, unhurried, without judgment. Got in the car and drove away.

Riki stood there in the empty lot for a long time after the tail lights disappeared. The cold had gotten sharper without him noticing. His face felt tight and his chest felt scraped out and somewhere across campus you were probably in your dorm not thinking about him at all.

He put his hands in his pockets. Turning around to start walking. Unsure where, just…toward something. Somewhere.

— Months later —

May always smelled like cut grass and sunscreen and the particular anxiety of people who had procrastinated and waited until the last minute to move with urgency to pack their shit and get out of the dorms.

The hallway was chaotic. Cardboard boxes stacked against walls, someone’s entire closet spilled out onto the floor three doors down, the elevator perpetually occupied by carts piled so high you couldn’t see the person pushing them.

You sat cross-legged on your bare mattress and looked at your room.

It looked nothing like yours anymore. The fairy lights down. The pictures off the corkboard, leaving little ghost-holes where the thumbtacks had been. Your rainbow gel pens in a ziplock bag inside a box instead of lined up by the window where they belonged. It looked like a room that was ready to forget you.

You reached for your phone.

The texts had been sparse. Purposeful. You’d send him a question about the paper you were finishing for his replacement, something academic and safe, and he’d answer it and then ask how you were holding up and you’d say fine and mean mostly and he seemed to understand the difference.

But his last message, sent three days ago, was still sitting unanswered at the bottom of the thread.

Jungwon: Cleared officially. As of this morning.

And then, after a few minutes:

Thought you should know.

You’d read it approximately forty times. Then typed now, sitting on your bare mattress surrounded by your boxed-up life:

You: I know this is late. I’m really glad.

You stared at it. Then added:

I'm moving out today.

Sent it before you could think too hard about why you wanted him to know that.

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Jungwon: Where are you going for the summer?

You smiled despite yourself. Small and private, just for the empty room.

You: Home. Unfortunately.

Jungwon: How unfortunate are we talking…

You: On a scale of one to ten. Probably an eight.

Jungwon: That bad?

You: My mom will ask me within the first hour if I’ve been eating enough. And my dad will ask me within the first day what my plan is and I have neither an appetite nor a plan so…

A longer pause this time. You could almost feel him smiling somewhere.

Jungwon: I might be in the city. Early June so…About two weeks from now.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen.

You: Which city?

Jungwon: Whichever city you’re in.

You set the phone down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a second. The same water stain you’d been looking at for months, shaped vaguely like a misshapen star.

Outside in the hallway someone dropped something heavy and swore loudly and someone else laughed.

Then you picked the phone back up.

You: Good to know. Let me know, of course.

Jungwon: I will.

You locked your phone and sat there for a moment in the quiet of your almost-empty room. No Riki appearing in doorways. No dread pooling in your stomach at the sound of footsteps you recognized. Just May pouring through the window and the distant sound of campus slowly exhaling.

But the envelope was plain. Just your name on the front in his handwriting, which you recognized immediately because it was annoyingly neat for someone who acted like the world’s rules didn’t apply to him.

You stood in your doorway for a second just looking at it.

Then you picked it up, went inside, and sat down atop your desk—ignoring the chair and just sitting on the wooden surface itself. Then opened it to see a solid three pages:

I don’t know how many times I started this. Enough that I have a small graveyard of crumpled paper in my trash can and my roommate thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.

I’m not going to open with an excuse. I had a lot of them prepared and I threw those drafts away too because you deserve better than my reasons. You’ve been listening to my reasons for three years and they never added up to anything good so I’m going to try something different.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the muffin. I know that sounds small but I think about it more than I should—the way you looked when I took it back. Like you’d expected it. Like you were already braced for it. And I did that. I contributed to your lack of trust in people and I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the internship. I didn’t actually want it. I think you knew that. I just couldn’t stand the idea of you having something I didn’t give you.

I’m sorry for the report. That one I’ll carry for a long time. He’s a good person and he didn’t deserve it and neither did you and I did it anyway because I was scared and jealous and I told myself it was protection when really it was just—me. Being exactly what I always accused everyone else of being.

I’m sorry for bullying you. Not the watered down version of that word—I mean I was cruel to you consistently and on purpose and I knew exactly what I was doing every time. I made your life harder than it already was and I did it because I could and that’s the truth of it.

I saw you and was done for. I need you to know that even if it doesn’t mean anything now. On the first day of orientation you were sitting in the third row and you had your pens lined up on the desk and you were so focused and so completely unbothered by the fact that no one was talking to you and I thought—she’s going to be someone. She already is.

And then I spent three years making sure you doubted that.

I think I loved you the best way I knew how and my best was genuinely terrible and that’s not your problem to carry, it’s mine. 

But if it gives you any closure, as part of my disciplinary action—I’m on formal academic probation. I’ve been suspended from all of my leadership roles. And even better for the world (and myself, one may think) I was mandated to attend counseling. Though I’m in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy now.

I may not have a reasonable explanation for my past behavior. But I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and Depression. So yes, there is a reason. A why and how. But I'm sorry you had to suffer at the hands of that.

I put in for a transfer. I leave after the end of my probation which is in December—the end of first semester. And even if I see you, I wouldn’t approach you. Not because I don’t want to but I just don’t think I earned the right. I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel guilty or reach out or anything like that. I just thought you should know that I’m not going to be something you have to navigate anymore. You get to have this campus back. You always should have. It was always your world and however much I envy anyone that gets to be in it—you should have the best one. The happiest one.

I hope you get the internship. I hope you get everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything you see when you close your eyes.

I hope he’s good to you. He will be. I think that’s what made me the angriest—knowing that he actually would be.

You don’t have to forgive me. I’m not asking you to. I just needed you to know that I know. All of it. I know exactly what I did. But I hope that there can be a day where we run into each other by chance ten years from now and can chat over a coffee. About any and everything. I’ll hold onto that hope tightly in the meantime.

Happy Holidays, Happy Birthday, Happy Halloween, Congraduations, Congratulations on the engagement, and everything else for your future. Hopefully I’ll be lucky enough to say ‘I knew her when…’

Love,

— Riki

— Two weeks later —

You walked down the street with a heavy heart. But another part of you felt a sense of freedom. A lightness that you haven’t been able to taste in a very long time. Everything felt different. Waking up and looking in the mirror wasn’t as hard as it was. Eating a piece of cake didn’t make you feel guilty anymore. You actually dared to do your makeup this morning. Even though those worries didn’t just magically disappear—you still ended up crying when you saw the letter R—you didn’t feel bad for existing anymore like you used to.

The last you heard of Riki was when that letter was slid under your door. In some way, you wondered who delivered it. Maybe one of his friends. Maybe him. And even that hurts knowing that he wasn’t man enough to look you in the eye. But after everything, you took it for what it was. Grateful for the closure that he could give you anyway. So you moved on. At least as best as you could, that is.

Jungwon and you have been in constant communication, though. From sporadic texts, to late night calls when he made it home after a long day. Since leaving your university, Jungwon’s signed on to be an independent researcher. Loosely affiliated with other universities enough to gain resources such as funding and whatnot. The person who gets commissioned to write books, contribute to academic journals, speak at conferences internationally. But lately, he’s been at his home base before he goes off to whatever else he wants to do. You’re not sure—by the time you both speak, you like to focus on the moment.

But today, you both have arranged to meet at a cafe that you enjoy going to every now and then. It’s a decently popular spot and you don’t expect him to know about it. It’s not like he knows anything about your hometown. You both agreed to meet at one PM—you open the door to the cafe, letting the little bell on the door jingle as it opens and closes. It was about twenty minutes until your coordinated time but you were nothing if not punctual. Or at least you tried to be for him. Like always, you scanned the place to see if any spots were open. Fortunately, there was a perfect two-seater right in the corner of the cafe. Quiet, a bit dark though. There was nothing there but a small painting that the owners placed just for the sake of filling the space. Then there was another space, another two-seater. Right in front of the windows. Both metal seats glinted and reflected off the glass. A small pot of daffodils hung over the center of the table from a chain that was connected to the ceiling. You tilted your head with a slight smile—a warm feeling rose in your chest as you carefully approached the table. Unsure of what seat to take, you just stare for a moment before you just sit at any one. Maybe Jungwon will remind you of which seat he wanted when he got here.

For a while, you debate ordering anything just yet. Wanting to revel in how fun it’d be to stand in line with him. Chatting as you both browsed the menu knowing that you’d probably just order the same thing you’d order at any other cafe that you’ve been to. The door jingles as it opens suddenly, drawing you out of the fantasy. Subconsciously, you sit up—fixing yourself and your hair as you are about to turn around. But before you could, pale hands cover your eyes—ultimately submerging your world in darkness.

“Guess who?” They sing softly, Your smile gave you away before you could even pretend to think about it.

“Took you long enough,” you said.

His hands dropped from your eyes and then he was there–sliding into the seat across from you like he’d been doing it for years, unwinding a scarf from around his neck even though it was the tail end of spring and entirely too warm for a scarf. Very him, somehow. He looked good. That was the first thought, arriving before you could be polite about it. Rested in a way he hadn’t looked the last time you’d seen him, which had been the office, which had been the worst day the both of you shared. His glasses were slightly different—new frames, a little thinner. His sweater was cream colored and soft looking and he had the sleeves pushed up already like he was ready to settle in. “You’re early,” he said.

“I love punctuality, Dr. Yang. You know this.” You bite your lip, trying to suppress a small laugh. 

He smiled at that—the real one, dimples and everything. “Well maybe be late, you know? I wanted to be here first.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, picking up the little menu card from the center of the table like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Wanted to see you walk in first. It’s what I’m used to.” The warm feeling in your chest expanded so suddenly you had to look down at the table for a second just to collect yourself.

The daffodils hung gently overhead, swaying from some draft you couldn’t locate.

“So,” he said, setting the menu down and folding his hands. Looking at you the same way he always had—like you were the most interesting thing in whatever room you both happened to be in. “How does it feel? How do you feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“Being done.” He tilted his head. “Just…turning over a new leaf.”

You thought about the almost-empty room. The letter in your nightstand drawer. The mirror that had gotten a little easier to look into. “Weird,” you said honestly. “Good-weird, though.”

He nodded slowly. “Good-weird is underrated.” The door jingled behind you somewhere. The espresso machine hissed. Outside the window the street moved at its usual indifferent pace, completely unbothered by the fact that something inside you had quietly, finally, come to rest.

“You look different,” Jungwon said. Not analyzing, just noticing.

“Different how?” For a moment, you forgot you even had makeup on. Which was something you almost never did.

He considered you for a moment, chin tilting slightly. “Just…” For once Jungwon searches for words, which for someone like him was almost a rare occurrence. “Beautiful.” He says it, blurting it out and exhaling over it like the elephant was finally coming off of his chest. Like he was allowed to breathe now. “You look so beautiful. You always have. But…there’s an equanimity. Repose—about you now. And I’m grateful—lucky—to see it.”

Your eyes widened slightly as your hand rose to your chest. Rubbing your chest over your flowy, linen shirt where your heart was. “Uh–I…thank you, Jungwon.”

He smiled. Reached over and straightened the small pot of daffodils that had drifted slightly off center. “Good,” he said simply. “Now. Tell me what’s good here. I drove forty minutes and I refuse to order the wrong thing.”

—

The both of you were buzzing. 

Spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in the same seats. Behinds aching as you both constantly adjust in the stiff, metal seats. Stomachs bloated and aching slightly from copious caffeine consumption. But neither of you cared. Neither of you could help but reach over the table as you held yourself as if either of you laughed—then your guts would spill out. Time doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore because whatever it is, you have all of it with him. The cafe soon closes, the employees quietly starting to do inventory and wiping tables. And you’re not dense, you both made your way out. Leaving a hefty tip for them in the jar by the register. And before the both of you knew it, you ended up on a bridge at one of the local parks. Nothing too far nor close to his car but it wasn’t like that was on either of your minds. Still, the golden hour was slowly tipping to blue. The water beneath your feet was neither loud or quiet. 

You both find a worn, wooden bench to sit on. Though surprisingly enough, it didn’t groan under both of your combined weight. So that was clearly a great sign. The bench had seen more than it should’ve but it wasn’t one to complain. The both of you stare ahead. Letting the silence build between the both of you but it wasn’t awkward. It felt earned more than anything. Finally you were looking at something outside of yourself without feeling the burden of doubt. Even though you enjoyed his company, it kills you to not hear his voice now. Him being this close to you makes you want him in any way. The sole hit of dopamine that you get when he says your name or laughs at one of your terrible jokes is enough to make you want this forever. Always.

You muster the courage to look to your left, only slightly do you turn your head to see him fully turned to you. Legs crossed over the other and hands folded over his stomach. And the moment your eyes meet, the two of you burst into a small fit of laughter. Jungwon threw his head back as his laugh was now more obnoxious than when he was in the cafe. Which you admired, you loved his mindfulness. How he minded everywhere he was and that he knew when to turn it on and off.

You’re still laughing but it’s going to fade into something softer any second now. And you’re positively anticipating it. That moment when the laughter dies down and leaves something unguarded in its place. So when it does, you’re fully turned to him with your back straightened—almost at attention—until you catch yourself. You didn’t need to perform or pretend. So you take a second to just…sink into the bench. Jungwon’s the first to speak. “When do you have to be home?” He asks softly, now the ebb and flow of the water below crashing a bit—but it was white noise. His voice was louder than anything you’ve ever heard. At the front of your mind.

“Uh…” You shrug, twisting your bracelet. “I don’t have to be anywhere. It’s not like I have a curfew. I am a grown woman, fun fact.” He reaches over, lightly pushing your shoulder. “Hush.” He laughs again. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Your brows furrowed as you playfully swatted him. “Clarify for me, please.”

“I mean…” He brings his arm to rest on the back of the bench. “I’m coming through on my promise.”

Your hand stills on your bracelet. You’d thought about this moment more than you’d ever admit to anyone including yourself. Lying in your almost empty dorm room, then later in your childhood bed staring at the same ceiling you'd stared at for eighteen years before you left. Turning his words over in the dark like something you weren't sure was real.

Just make sure you have your passport, okay?

You’d told yourself it was just something people say. Something kind and warm that exists only in the moment it’s spoken and dissolves after. Like steam. Like the way people say we should catch up and never mean it. But here he is.

“Which promise?” you ask quietly. Not because you don’t know. But because you need to hear him say it.

Jungwon looks at you for a moment. That same unhurried way he looks at everything—like he has nowhere else to be and intends to stay exactly where he is. “Well, more like I need you to come through on yours.” He smiles softly, then it widens by the second.

And the blue hour settles around you both. And the water does whatever it wants below. And you think—oh. It was always going to be this. So you stop twisting the bracelet. And you lean into the arm behind you. “What did I say?” Again, you knew. You just wanted to hear him say it. “That you’d go anywhere.” His smile softens a bit. The hand by your shoulder, brushing the exposed skin where the sleeve ended. Sending jolts through your skin. You didn’t realize how you longed for touch. Affection of any kind. Platonic, familial, romantic. Even then, you didn’t realize until now that one of those boxes was being checked. “With me.” “Where’s anywhere?” You clear your throat, gulping down literally nothing. You wanted to look down and see his hand brush against your warm skin—just to make sure that it was real. But he may think that you didn’t enjoy it. You were still unfamiliar with these dynamics. Do you acknowledge it or not? 

“Brazil.” He says.

The word sits between you both for a moment. Just breathing there.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you. Has been, you realize. Probably since before you turned. The hand on your shoulder isn’t moving anymore—just resting there, warm and certain against your skin like it belongs and is only now admitting it. So you turn toward him fully. And the last of the golden hour catches the new frames of his glasses and the particular way he’s looking at you like you are the most inevitable thing that has ever happened to him. And you bring your hand up. It finds his jaw before you’ve finished deciding to do it. Your thumb barely grazes the place where his dimple lives. You feel him exhale—slow and quiet—and underneath your palm he isn’t quite as controlled as usual. His eyes drop to your mouth. Just once; and that’s enough for you to close the distance. It’s soft at first. Just the reality of it. And then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—finding your face and holding you there like you are something worth holding carefully. His other hand finds your waist and draws you in. Not urgent. Just yes. You kiss him like you have nowhere else to be. Because you don't.

When you pull back you don’t go far. His forehead finds yours. Eyes still closed. Breath slightly uneven which does something to you that you’ll think about later. 

Then—

“So that’s a yes?” Quieter than usual. And when you open your eyes he’s already smiling. Dimples and everything. Like he can’t help it.

You laugh softly. “Ten times, yes.”

He takes your hand from his jaw and holds it instead. Pressing a kiss to your palm before pulling you into the warmth of his chest. And you both sit there above the water saying nothing at all. 

The bench holds.

— epilogue

The sun had been up for hours but you’d only been awake for twenty minutes and already you’d decided this was the best decision you’d ever made.

The kind of heat that didn’t ask anything of you. Just settled over your skin like permission. The ocean was doing what oceans do—completely indifferent and endlessly moving and so blue it almost didn’t look real.

You shifted on the beach chair and didn’t pull at your swimsuit. Didn’t even think about pulling at it. That was new.

You’d bought it a week before the trip in a fitting room under fluorescent lights that were nobody’s friend and you’d stood there for a long time just looking at yourself. Waiting for the familiar voice that always showed up in those moments—the one that catalogued everything, measured everything, found everything wanting. But most importantly, reminded you that you were beautiful even in a trash bag. And now here you are. Somewhere warm and far from home with salt drying on your shoulders and your hair doing whatever it wanted because you’d stopped fighting it two days ago.

You turned your head. Jungwon was exactly where he’d been when you dozed off—stretched out on the chair beside yours, laptop balanced on a little lap desk, glasses on, expression set to that particular focused calm that meant he was either deep in thought or had been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes. 

"You’re supposed to be on vacation," you said.

He didn’t look up immediately. "I am on vacation. But also not—technically."

"You have your laptop."

"I have my laptop on vacation." He turned a page of something beside him without looking at it. "It’s called balance."

You laughed, the sound coming out easy and unhurried, swallowed up by the ocean breeze. He looked over then. Just briefly, over the rim of his glasses. Something in his expression shifted—soft and unguarded in that way he never tried to hide anymore. Like he’d given up pretending he wasn’t exactly as gone on you as he was. "I love seeing you happy," he said.

"I love that you love seeing me happy."

He held your gaze for a second like he was making sure. Then he closed the laptop and set it on the small table beside him. And stood up.

You tilted your face up as he stepped over to your chair, this man who had kept every quiet promise he’d ever made to you, who had shown up in late June on a Thursday and never left after that. Who had said no rules in a half empty office once while packing up his life and meant it in a way that turned out to be true.

He leaned down slowly. One hand braced on the back of your chair, the other coming up to cup your face like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.

The sun was warm on your shoulders. The ocean kept moving. He kissed you soft and unhurried, the way he did most things—like there was nowhere else to be. Like this had been decided a long time ago and he was simply glad they’d finally gotten here.

When he pulled back he didn’t go far. Just pressed small kisses to your cheek, then neck, and collarbone. Inhaling your sweet, salty scent before smiling once he looked you in the eye. Lightly pressing his nose to yours. And you thought about Riki’s letter sitting in your nightstand drawer back home. For the smallest unit of time possibly—like a nanosecond. About the happiest one. About coffee ten years from now and Happy Halloween and a small crumpled graveyard of false starts.

You hoped he was okay. You genuinely did. But laying here on a beach chair in Brazil, looking above. Seeing the sun cast a halo around the body of your angel—the man that saved you.

You knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Copyright: © zorange13. 2026. All rights reserved. Do not repost, copy, or distribute without permission.

You didn’t answer right away. Mostly because you were trying to calculate the odds of getting away with a perfectly executed slap, but also because your brain had short-circuited for point-three seconds trying not to stare at his mouth. "What are you doing here, Riki?" You roll your eyes as you toss your pen onto the notebook, letting out a light plop at it hit the thick paper. 

The guy shrugged with a smirk on his face. "Just printing out some things. I should be asking you, little one. Don’t you have a speed bump to climb?" He pouted his lips mockingly as he reached his hand out to pat your head. 

You swat his hand off, jaw tight. "Don’t touch me."

He laughs—low, unbothered, amused. "You always say that, but your eyes say otherwise."

"My eyes say ‘I wish you were dead,’" you snap, narrowing them.

Riki pulls out the chair across from you without asking. Of course. Because asking would require basic manners. "You know," he says, lounging like he owns this library, "your notes are cute. All that rainbow color-coding and tiny handwriting. Adorable. Almost makes me forget you’re my competition."

You stare him down. "You can’t compete where you don’t compare, Riki."

He clicks his tongue. "There it is." He shook his finger. "That little bite." He nodded with a sarcastic smile as he took one of your pens—your orange pen—and pointed it at you. Almost as if he was warning you of something. "It could almost make me think you want me."

At this point, your entire mood was ruined. The cute little setup you had curated for yourself wasn’t even cutting it anymore. You stood up with a frustrated sigh, gathering your things to put away. "I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than ever give you that impression." You snatched your pen from his grasp.

Riki blinked, taken aback for half a second. Then he started laughing. Full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh.

"You’re seriously unhinged," he said, grinning as he watched you shove your notebook into your bag. "Like, clinically."

"And you’re seriously delusional if you thought this was a bonding moment," you shot back, slinging your tote over your shoulder. He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head like he was settling in for a show. "Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that, you looked so cozy before I got here."

"I was until you got here."

He furrowed his brows, feigning pity and sympathy. "Sorry,"

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly hit the back of your skull. "I swear to God, I would genuinely pay to never see your face again."

"Well…" a new voice cut in smoothly from behind you. Low, warm, like melted honey and clean-cut authority.

You froze.

"…you won’t see much of anything if you two don’t get some sleep soon."

You turned slowly, and sure enough—standing in the moonlight like a poetic warning—was Dr. Yang. Dressed in all black, button-down rolled at the sleeves, coffee in hand, and an unreadable look in his eyes.

"Professor," you breathed, your voice unintentionally softer.

"Didn’t expect to find two of my brightest students sparring after hours," he said, gaze flicking briefly to Riki and then back to you. "You alright?"

Riki, still in the chair like a parasite, answered for you. "She’s fine. We were just chatting."

You gave him a hard side-eye. "Yeah…chatting."

Dr. Yang smiled faintly. It was subtle, but something about it made your stomach dip—like he already knew more than he let on. "Hm. You should head to your dorms. It’s late."

You opened your mouth to respond, but Riki beat you to it again. "She likes the quiet at night. Says it helps her focus."

The way Dr. Yang’s brows lifted just slightly made your ears burn. Riki grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

"I’ll walk you out," your professor said, voice gentle but final.

And for once, Riki had no snarky comeback. He just watched you collect yourself, his smirk softening into something unreadable.

You followed the professor toward the exit, not looking back at all. Though Riki was still there, watching. Watching you follow him like a moth to a flame, dog on a leash. With wide eyes and a gentleness that he felt he could never get out of you. And he watched.

Eyes narrowed. Jaw tight.

And for the first time since the beginning of this interaction, he wasn’t smiling.

—

Riki and you had this unrelenting rivalry going since the beginning of your first year at university. Sharing the same major, it started off as a slight nod of respect. A silent acknowledgment of the hard work you had both put into every assignment. The competition was friendly, nothing intense until you both found that your GPAs were entirely too close. Then the casual ‘hey, how’d you do on the socio exam?’ stopped being out of curiosity and started to be firmly interrogative.

When he showed you his A over your A-, you decided it was war.

To say you were envious of him was an understatement, severely understated. In some strange way, you wanted to be him. You wanted to be attractive. You wanted to be well-liked by your peers. You wanted to get the invites to the parties and have a boatload of friends. You wished that you could study for like thirty minutes a day then just ace everything.

But fortunately, you weren’t ugly at all. But every part of you felt so. You didn’t wear amazing clothes, usually opting for the hoodie and jeans or shorts. A cute, form-fitting long sleeve on a good day. Guys never looked at you. Not that you equated your worth to the attention you got from men. But sometimes you wouldn’t mind if a guy stopped you, if you got a double-take even. You wore light makeup, finding it cute but far too lazy to commit to a full beat. You idolized and respected the people that did though because you never thought you could. Feeling like a fish out of water when you would look in the mirror. So blush, mascara, and some lip gloss is your go-to! 

You had no friends. With all—if not most—of your time spent locked in the library or dorm. The social life that you promised yourself upon high school graduation just hadn’t found you yet. You hated crowds and your social battery depleted quickly, still you tried and tried to make friends. Going to club fairs and following classmates on social media didn’t help—they never followed back. Going out to bars that your classmates frequented in hopes of befriending someone all fell through as well. Every random person you approached looked at you like you were something on the bottom of their shoe. Like you were crazy for even trying to talk to them. But of course, Riki didn’t have any of these issues. He commanded every room he walked into with minimal effort. Riki was bewitching. Guys and girls either wanted to be with him or be him—shit, maybe both. Nonetheless, he was funny, outgoing, ingenious, and just such an interesting person. 

To everyone else. 

He made fun of you, picked on you, patronized you, ensured that no matter what he never let you win. He never gave you the one-up nor did he let you live it down when something of his turned out better than whatever you did.  You resented him and hoped that with every part of you that he would either drop dead or fail at something entirely so you could finally rub it in his face. Just once. Even with that, you hated that he was the only person you interacted with on this campus. Yet somehow you didn’t want to let it go considering that he was the closest, yet furthest thing you had to a friend here.

Riki was all you had.

—

Every Monday and Thursday, you had your Theology 101 class with Professor Jungwon Yang. You didn’t care for Religious Studies that much but your school required it for some reason. Something about them wanting its students to be well-rounded which, fair enough? You show up to class early like usual, around twenty minutes. It gives you time to settle in and make some progress on some miscellaneous things for other classes. But just as you were typing up an outline for your Media Ethics paper, a sudden voice broke through the silence.

"Oh—you’re early!"

You startled so hard your laptop nearly slid off the desk. Looking up, your eyes locked with said Professor.

"Jesus—" you hissed, then immediately regretted the blasphemy. "Sorry. I mean. Not literally."

He laughed—an easy, bright sound that didn’t feel professorly at all. "You’re fine. Though I should dock your participation points for that." He jokes.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

Dr. Yang was young—too young to be teaching undergrad theology without causing minor distractions every lecture. Word on campus was he’d graduated with a doctorate at twenty-five and took up this adjunct position "just for the experience," like it was a part-time internship. He always dressed sharp but casual—sweaters layered over button-downs, wire-framed glasses that somehow made him more intimidating, not less. He had the kind of face that belonged in a student catalog. 

Unfair.

"Anyway," he continued, setting his bag on the desk. "What are you working on?"

You paused. "A paper for my media class."

"You’re a comms major, right?"

You blinked. "You…remember that?"

"I remember most things," he replied, like it was no big deal. "Your essays always have a strong tone. Confident. A little sarcastic. I like that."

Your face went warm. Not blushing, obviously—you were way too emotionally detached for that. But warm.

He leaned back against the podium, arms crossed. "If you ever want to do your final paper on religious media or spiritual commodification, let me know. It’d be an interesting lens. And I think you’d kill it."

You blinked. Twice.

"Thanks," you said, suddenly feeling like you forgot how to blink altogether.

He smiled as he nodded gently, "Class starts in fifteen. Don’t let me keep you." He circles his desk as he takes a seat, soaking in the silence and tapping of your keyboard echoing throughout the room. 

It was nice actually, the quiet of the room. Never in your life have you ever really felt fully comfortable in the presence of another person. Not even your own mother. 

He’s calm, quiet, knows when to shut up (thankfully), and Dr. Yang being around…doesn’t bother you. You don’t feel antsy, squeamish, repulsed, or irritated at him being in the same room as you. 

But of course, you never know peace for long. Go figure!

"Dr. Yang! I brought your favorite," Riki’s voice rang out like a curse echoing through a cathedral as he strutted into the room holding iced coffees both hands.

You didn’t even look up. You already knew. Of course he was holding your favorite drink.

Dr. Yang looked up, slightly amused. "You remembered my order?"

"Nah, I guessed," Riki grinned. "But if it’s right, then I’m just that good."

Yang raised a brow. "I don’t usually take bribes before midterms."

"No bribe." Riki shook his head with a gentle smile.

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw your laptop at his face, if we’re being honest.

"Also," Riki added, walking right past you to the row behind and tapping your chair with his foot, "they were out of your basic vanilla syrup, so I made an executive decision and got you hazelnut."

Your eye twitched. "I didn’t ask for anything."

"I know. That’s what makes me so generous." He plopped down in the chair behind you and leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms. "You still mad about the pen thing?"

You didn’t respond.

Dr. Yang quickly spoke up, trying to fill the silence as he sensed your discomfort. "Mr. Nishimura, I’m happy you’re joining us a little early." He smiled as he stood and started to write the date on the whiteboard in preparation for the lecture.

"Good habits," Riki said, tossing his bag down just next to his feet. "Gotta keep up with the competition, y’know?"

You didn’t look at him, but you knew he was staring. That smug grin practically burned itself into your peripheral vision.

Dr. Yang smiled, oblivious to the landmine he just stepped over. "I didn’t know you two were competitive."

You both answered at the same time.

"She’s obsessed with winning."

 "He’s annoying on purpose."

There was a beat of silence before Jungwon let out a small laugh. "Right. Well, maybe a little healthy rivalry will do you both good."

You rolled your eyes. Riki just smirked.

He leaned back in his chair, the picture of smug comfort. "Some people work well under pressure. Others…get snippy."

You finally turned to glance at him, just for a second. "And some people mistake being tolerated for being wanted."

He mock-gasped. "That was a little rude. Professor, are we allowed to verbally assault each other before class starts?"

Jungwon didn’t even look up from the notes he was scribbling. "Only if it’s educational."

You pressed your lips together, suppressing a smile. Damn him for being witty.

Riki, still unfazed, leaned forward again and lowered his voice just for you. "I also told the barista your name was ‘raging nuisance.’ She wrote it on the cup and everything."

You turned slightly in your seat, expression flat. "I hope they spelled ‘annoying narcissist’ instead."

"Oh, they didn’t have enough room." He shook his head as he pursed his lips to keep himself from laughing.

You hated how easily he made you want to laugh. It was infuriating. You hated it even more that Jungwon was watching now, with that little curious crease between his brows like he was trying to figure out if this was flirting or warfare.

—

Class had ended five minutes ago, but you were still in the lecture hall, hovering awkwardly at the front while Dr. Yang packed up his laptop and notes.

He glanced up, surprised but not unkind. "Everything okay?"

You cleared your throat. "Yeah. I just…I wanted to ask if I could take you up on that religious media idea? For the final."

He perked up a little. "You serious?"

You nodded, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were keeping your organs from spilling out. "Yeah. I think it’d be interesting to look into faith-based marketing, especially in, like, TV or influencer culture. Plus, you said it’d be a strong angle. So…"

He smiled—just a little, enough to make your stomach twist in that annoying way. "Well, I stand by that. You’d do it justice."

You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitating. "Also…is there any extra credit I can do?"

That made him pause. "Extra credit? You’re stellar as is."

You nodded. "Not because I’m failing or anything," you added quickly, waving your hands. "I just want to buffer my grade. Just in case. You know. If something crazy happens. Like if, I don’t know, the guy who ruins my life recreationally decides to make me fail through psychic sabotage."

Dr. Yang blinked. "You want an assignment…to help you prepare for another assignment that’s not for two months?"

You hesitated. "…Yes?"

He huffed a laugh under his breath, rubbing his forehead. "You really are a comms major."

You shake your head, tasting the self-deprecation. "No, I’m just me."

"You’re just anxious," he corrected gently, though not unkindly. "But alright. How about this—bring me three examples of religious commodification in media by next class. Ads, shows, music videos, whatever. Annotate them briefly. If you do that, I’ll knock off your lowest quiz grade."

Your heart sank. "My lowest grade is an A."

He blinked. "...Okay?"

"So that doesn’t help me."

Dr. Yang looked at you for a second, then slowly set down his coffee. "Are you asking for extra credit on top of your already perfect grade?"

You hesitated. "No?"

He stared.

"…Yes."

There was a long pause. You stared at each other, the air thick with silent judgment—most of it coming from him.

"I’m gonna say something, and I need you to promise you won’t take it personally," he said finally.

You braced yourself.

"You’re insufferable."

You frowned a little, clutching your chest but still trying to stifle a laugh. "That’s not very nice of a Theology professor."

He smiles, "God forgives." He points at you, "I, however, am still working on it."

"So what do I do in the meantime?"

He smirks, folding his arms. "Do the assignment. Consider it a bonus...for your own amusement."

You raise an eyebrow. "So, like extra credit...but with zero reward?"

He shrugs. "Exactly. Just the satisfaction of knowing you could win at everything, if you wanted to."

Oh, this lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. "Thanks, Dr. Yang." You stood with a smile. "Hopefully this will be as enriching as you say."

"It should," he sighed. "I think it’s fun. Y’know? Something people your age should be having?"

You roll your eyes, "I should’ve taken the philosophy requirement instead." Walking away with a small laugh, you wave at him.

He calls out after you, "Then you’d be anxious and confused." 

He’s absolutely correct.

But you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that, just for the fun. To humor him. You leave the room with a smile, glad that he gave you something fun to think about. 

—

You turned the corner out of the lecture hall with that small smile on your lips and that funny feeling in your stomach.

Your fun little banter with Dr. Yang was always enjoyable, fun, super casual and it was nice to have an interaction with someone other than your stuffed animals and the beanpole that likes to nag you every chance he gets. 

It’s fucked up really, everytime you think about him, he just pops up. 

You make a right out of this hallway and suddenly clash into a lean figure. Your bag hits the wall closely on your right. Like a pinball hitting the walls in the machine. But lucky you, Riki huffs out a small laugh as he moves his hands up, holding your biceps as he walks you to stability against the wall. "Mmm…" He hummed, "let’s watch where we’re going." As if he wasn’t waiting there for you, hoping you ran into him. 

You nudged him off of you, "You did that on purpose, Riki." You sighed as you brush the residue of his hands off of you. 

He smiled down at you, then held up a brown paper bag. The same one he had earlier from the café that he either just got for himself or never gave to you. "Muffin for my muffin?"

Any other time, this would be cute. This is cute. This honestly just felt like another instance of him just being weird. He never took anything seriously, not your time, patience, or anything. And you don’t expect him to.

"Kick rocks," You scoff as you start walking toward the exit. 

"You’re welcome," Riki calls after you, jogging a few steps to catch up, the paper bag still in hand like he’s delivering a peace treaty.

You ignore him, pushing open the exit door with enough force that it slaps the frame behind you. You should’ve kept walking. You wanted to keep walking. But of course, he follows.

"It’s banana walnut," he says, a little sing-songy. "That’s your favorite, right? Or is it just the one you pretend to like when you’re trying to seem quirky and approachable to baristas?"

You stop walking.

He bumps into you again.

This time, you don’t shove him. You turn—slowly, dramatically, and with the kind of death-glare that could reduce lesser men to ashes. Fortunately, Riki doesn’t waver. "You were smiling on your way from class. Why?"

Your brows furrow, "I wasn’t smiling and if I was, it has nothing to do with you. Just like I want nothing to do with you." You throw your hands up flippantly. 

The same smile stays on his face as he shoves the bagged muffin into your hand. "Yeah, I don’t actually care." His tone mellows out to one more straight-foward and blunt. "But I did find you to make you aware that I will be applying for the summer internship. You know, the same one you’re applying for? The one that now that you have no chance of getting as long as I’m alive?" He tilts his head as the smile settles into the patronizing one you were oh-so-familiar with.

Your university had an internship promise for all students due to its very strong programs and alumni network. With this, business students (like yourself and Riki) were already a shoo-in for solid jobs and careers upon graduation. 

But this is the thing, there are always internship opportunities because there are thousands of students. Meaning that there are hundreds to thousands of internships. 

Yet, of course, Riki just wants to take this one. 

"I’m not applying for an internship this summer," you crossed your arms as you feigned indifference. Maybe having him think you didn’t would somehow wane his unshakeable tenacity. 

He saw through you though, "You are." He nodded, "The consulting group one. You don’t have to lie, I overheard you talking to your mommy about it last week." 

Every summer, your school works closely with consulting groups where they choose one student from each business college within the university (there only being three separate colleges) to fly to a major city to work on real-world business cases for Fortune 500 companies.

While like any other internship, it’s a great way to gain experience and network—however it is extremely competitive. Out of the thousands of students in this pool, only three are chosen. You had been super excited about this opportunity considering you are a Communications major—ironically enough given that you don’t know how to communicate with anyone—and you truly do want to have this chance to get your name out there. To dip your toes into this career path. 

But naturally, Riki didn’t find appeal in those. He wanted yours. Because really, why not?

"Can’t you just apply for all of the other dozens?" You turn, trying to get ahead to the dining hall for your lunch. A nice, greasy batch of french fries really sounded up your alley today. "It’s not like you’d lose them."

He followed in step with you. "So by that logic, I should apply for this one. Because I wouldn’t lose." He smiled, biting his lip dreamily as he looked up in the air at the trees. "I mean, really think about it. What’s the score now? Riki, a million and one. You, zero?"

You hadn’t looked at him since you started walking and you definitely weren’t going to look at him now. That familiar twist in your stomach, the burning sensation right at the bottom. You had known it all too well and you didn’t miss it.

"Now that I think of it, you’re not good at anything, really." He shook his head thoughtfully. "Though you were right about one thing. You can’t compete where you don’t compare." Riki grabbed your arm to stop you forcefully, ensuring you looked him dead in the eye. "But you weren’t talking about me." 

"I don’t know when you’ll learn, sweetheart. But in case those books you read hadn’t exactly informed you well enough, then I will." The smile he once had is now extinct. "Quit while you’re ahead. Wait—" he stopped for a beat as he looked down, feigning thought. "You’re not even ahead!" He let out a semblance of a laugh. "And you never will be. So just save yourself the heartache, go hole back up in that dorm. Bury yourself into those cute little romance books just wishing for the love you’ll never have and forget about it." The distance between you two had gotten smaller than you could comprehend. And conveniently barely anyone was around either. Everyone either in the classroom buildings or somewhere else. Some stragglers running amok, most likely late for classes.

But in this position, it didn’t even matter. You could be in a sea of people and still feel as vulnerable as if you were in the wilderness. Riki’s eyes weren’t teasing, weren’t funny, weren’t cool. 

His eyes held pure venom. Just disgust and repugnance, and that had no place on a face like his.

You blink, once, slowly. Like your brain’s buffering because surely he didn’t just say all that to your face.

But he did. And now he’s looking at you like he’s proud of it. Like he’s already won.

For a second, you wonder if he has.

Because yeah, maybe your confidence is stitched together by duct tape and quiet desperation. Maybe your hands are clammy, your throat’s tight, and your eyes are starting to sting like they always do when you’re angry but can’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.You looked over his shoulder, at the bark of a tree because you simply couldn’t dare to look at him without so much as bursting into tears. Because you know it just like he does, you’re not confident. You don’t measure up to him. In anything. And in a perfect story where you’re supposed to be the badass that has this amazing comeback and he sits there, gobsmacked and ready to tongue you down, this just isn’t the case. 

You are weak. You froze.

Smart people like you are a dime a dozen.

Intelligent, brilliant people like him are once in a lifetime.

So you do nothing.

You don’t shove him. You don’t scream. You don’t drop a monologue that sends the birds scattering.

You just stand there. Breathing too hard, blinking too fast.

And Riki knows it. Of course he does. That’s why he’s still staring at you with that smug little expression, like this is just another check on his running list of victories. Like he already knows how this ends. He walks away, you crumble, and the world spins on its axis. Business as usual.

But the thing is—you’re not mad at him. Not really.

You’re mad at yourself.

Because even after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted him to be wrong. Still wanted him to look at you like you were a challenge. A threat. Like you were someone worth worrying about.

Instead, he looks at you like you’re predictable.

And maybe that’s worse than hate. Maybe it’s worse than anything.

You swallow around the lump in your throat. Try to breathe through your nose, like the therapist you stopped seeing after two sessions told you. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

Because Riki’s right.

And you hate that. God, you hate it. The way he always seems to know what he’s doing, what he wants, who he is. And the worst part is? He’s probably not even trying. He’s probably not even thinking about you anymore.

You tighten your grip around the muffin, its paper wrap crinkling beneath your fingers like your composure.

So he smiles gently, sadistically at your now cowered demeanor. He snatched the muffin out of your hand. "You weren’t gonna eat it anyway, right?"

Your eyes finally moved, looking down at the concrete you stood on just as he let you go. 

He noticed your expression, how defeated and distant your irises were beyond what he could see. So he crouched a little, still as patronizing as ever. "I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings." Pouting as he gently moved your face to look at him. Thumb caressing the flesh of your scorching hot cheek. So delicate, like if he put even the smallest bit more pressure he would put a dent in you. "Someone’s gotta tell you the truth. It’s not like you have anyone else to do it…"

Oh, fuck him. You thought.

"I’m just looking out for you, hm?" He let go just as easily. "Same time tomorrow?" He waved as he rubbed your shoulder, wandering off to God knows where as you stood there. Burning, aching, and barely able to stand the sight of yourself.

—

Dr. Yang’s office is warm. On the fourth floor, tucked in at the very end of the hallway. The type of offices you see in movies or create in your imagination from books. His desk was in the middle, right behind it was an expansive recessed bookshelf with media from 1984 to Cold War textbooks to Wuthering Heights. For some reason it was very earthy, everything was made of strong, sturdy wood and he always got just the right amount of sunlight.

You knock, just lightly enough not to scare him. 

He’s leaning over a stack of papers, glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. "Office hours miracle?" he asks, smiling when he sees you. "Come in."

You slid in and closed the door back behind you. "Hey, sorry to bother y—"

Dr. Yang immediately shook his head. "You’re not bothering me. You’ve never even been here before. Sit, sit." He nodded to the chair in front of the desk encouragingly. "What’s up?" Sitting down smoothly, you pull out a notebook, flipping it open to a page cluttered with highlighter scribbles and sideways questions. "It’s about the assignment," you say, tapping the corner of the page. "The first paper? I swear I read the prompt like…six times. And I’m still not sure I’m doing it right."

Dr. Yang smiles, easy. "That’s a promising start. Confusion means you’re thinking."

You raise a brow. "That sounds like something people say right before you fail."

He laughs—warm, unbothered. "Maybe. But it also means you’re trying to find the right angle, not just the easy one. Let me see."

You pass him your notebook and he scans it, nodding slowly. "You’re writing about digital spaces and moral identity?"

You nod. "Yeah. Like, how people perform goodness online. But it’s so abstract that every time I try to put it into a thesis, it feels fake-deep or pretentious."

"Fake-deep," he repeats, amused. "I should make that a grading category."

You smirk faintly, despite yourself.

He leans back in his chair, setting the notebook on the desk. "Here’s the thing—you’re asking big questions. That’s not a flaw at all. It’s direction, if anything. The key is narrowing it without dumbing your words down."

You shift in your seat, chewing your bottom lip. "I just don’t want it to sound like I’m pointing fingers. Or worse, like I don’t even know what I’m talking about."

He tilts his head, considering you. "May I ask something?"

"Sure."

"What made you afraid of sounding unsure?"

You blink. The question hangs in the air, soft but weighted.

"I don’t know," you lie. Instinctively. Because saying his name out loud makes your skin crawl. And you’re not ready—not here, not yet.

Dr. Yang doesn’t push. He just nods, like he heard what you didn’t say. "Well. You’re allowed to sound unsure in a draft. That’s where you figure things out. It’s part of the process."

You look down at your hands, fingers still curled around the edge of the notebook. "Okay."

"Also," he adds gently, "I hope you know it’s okay to be a little lost. That’s kind of the point of college…and life itself."

You let out a shaky laugh. "You sound like a fortune cookie."

"A well-read one," he says. "Want help outlining it? Or would that ruin the illusion of academic suffering?"

You smile, a little crooked. "Honestly? I could use the help."

He grabs a pen. "Great. Let’s de-suffer this together."

And just like that, it’s easier to breathe. The weight on your chest isn’t gone, not by a long shot—but it shifts. Just enough to remind you: there are still places in the world that feel soft. That don’t ask you to be clever or composed. Just you.

And maybe, slowly, that’s where you’ll start.

—

After a solid hour of brainstorming and bouncing off of each other, you and Dr. Yang had actually slowly let go of the outline. At this point, you had finished it seeing as you had quickly begun to understand the topic. The young professor was actually great at explaining things without making you feel like an idiot or silly for being confused. Now, you two were chatting about everything and nothing, mild debates over books. Movies. Who knew that he actually enjoyed hate-watching fanfic movies?

"Okay wait no, The QB and Me wasn’t even that bad, though." You smiled as you pointed at him, chewing on the snacks that he offered you. Gladly, he munched on some with you to not make you feel lonely while eating. Which is always fun.

He smiles, amused. "Just hearing the ‘I’m so sick of your main character energy’ line from the best friend was enough to make me want to off myself." 

You’re currently sitting on the brown leather couch that smelled of cologne. The material was slightly worn but for some reason, couches like this always felt the best. You could tell he definitely slept on this couch more often than not. "No, I won’t lie, the best friend did piss me off at some points. Like girl, we get that you got denied from Princeton but your friend also broke up with a guy she really liked. Sorry she didn’t just jump to your aid when she was already hurting?" You ranted, and honestly, this was the most you’ve ever spoken to someone about something this niche in a very long time.

"It’s not even that," he waved his hand as he tried to muffle his laugh. "The fact that at the party they went to, she left Dallas there knowing she was drinking. Then!" He sighed dramatically. "Hear me out, she left with the main guy’s brother. My thing is, you knew she was drinking so why didn’t you at least make sure she was good before you left?" He shrugged with irritation in his eyes. "Could’ve dropped her at home on the way to wherever y’all were going. Or could’ve had the main guy keep an eye on her and ensure he took her home, like this is your best friend!" 

You’re giggling into the sleeve of your hoodie now, half from the sugar rush and half from how serious he sounds about this plot hole. "Bro, she did not care. At all."

"I was actually rooting for their friendship more than the romance," he says with a thoughtful look. "Because I love a meaningful friendship arc. But when she just started to be weird then she lost me. And I’m usually forgiving. That’s a work in progress."

You laugh into your sleeve again, the sound bubbling out of you without resistance. It’s strange—how natural this feels. Like the conversation has been happening for years instead of just an hour. No pressure, no grades, no expectations. Just two nerds slandering messy fictional girls.

Eventually, your laughter fades into a smile. The room settles into something softer, more open.

Jungwon leans back on the couch, tilting his head toward you. "I’m really glad you came today," he says, voice quiet but clear. "I hope I was able to help you with what you needed."

You nod, returning the smile. "Yeah. I feel a lot better about the outline. And…everything."

A beat passes. He glances at you again.

"You can call me Jungwon, by the way," he says, casual but intentional. "If you want."

You blink, surprised for a second—but then something settles in your chest. It feels like a trust fall you didn’t know you were invited to. "Jungwon?"

He nods, waving you off with a casual expression. "Yeah, I mean—I’m not really one for formalities."

"…Okay. Jungwon." You say it slowly, like tasting something new. "Thanks."

He looks like he might say something else—but instead just gives a soft, content nod.

—

When you’re standing up to leave, hoodie sleeves pulled over your wrists and your bag hanging off one shoulder, you pause near the door.

"Thanks for walking me out that night," you say, voice gentler than you intend. "At the library. I know it was late."

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly remembering. "Of course. You looked like you needed an out."

You hum. "Yeah. Riki was…being Riki."

He eyes you carefully now. "What’s going on between you two, anyway?" he asks, lightly. "You a thing? Like slow-burn enemies-to-lovers or something?"

You scrunch your nose immediately. "What? No. Definitely not. I think you’re the one who reads too many books."

He smirks. "Didn’t even hesitate."

You shrug, trying not to reveal too much. "Riki’s not…a very nice person?" You adjust your bag on your shoulder. "I don’t know, he just…can be very weird sometimes."

Jungwon furrows his brows as he crosses his arms, leaning against his desk. Something he tends to do but you noticed this is his analytical stance. "Weird, how?"

"Like…" you look up in thought as you tilt your head, trying to turn those cogs in your brain. "Riki and I aren’t friends. He thoroughly enjoys making my life even more difficult than it is. But I think he knows the power he has over me and really isn’t afraid to make me aware of it." 

Jungwon’s brows lift slightly, arms still crossed. "That’s…a lot," he says carefully. "The ‘power he has over you’ part—what does that mean?"

You blink, suddenly aware of how much you just gave away. The words had spilled out too fast, too unfiltered, like a truth you didn’t mean to say out loud.

You let out a dry laugh, trying to wave it off. "I mean, not like…real power. He’s just annoying. Egocentric. He knows how to get under my skin, that’s all."

Jungwon doesn’t look convinced. "Still sounds like someone who’s in your head a lot."

You glance toward the floor. "Unfortunately."

There’s a quiet pause. Not awkward, but a bit tense rather. He watches you a second longer, eyes thoughtful but not judging. Just trying to understand. "Just—be careful with people like that, okay?" he says softly. "Competition can go south very quickly. I’d hate for you to lose yourself in something like that." He stops himself. Doesn’t want to overstep.

You nod slowly. "I know."

Jungwon pushes off the desk and walks over to the door, opening it again for you. "You don’t deserve that type of worry," he says casually, almost like a passing thought. "Friend or foe. But if it ever gets to be too much, my email and office are at your disposal always."

You manage a small smile. "Thanks, Jungwon."

He gives a half-smile back. "Anytime." He nods, his smile now expanding. "And tell Dallas we deserved better."

You snort, shaking your head as you step into the hallway. "You’re never letting that go, huh?"

He shrugs, still grinning. "I’d sooner die."

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, but the words—and the warmth of them—linger. You tuck that somewhere deep, somewhere safe.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re walking away from something heavy. You feel like you might’ve left a little of it behind.

—

Since you and Jungwon’s fun ‘office hours-turned-hangout’ last week, he’s been thinking. 

Like really thinking. 

He prides himself on being very observant and someone that can truly read people. So as he stepped into class today, he was going to do that. He was going to do more of that. He was going to really try to understand what you meant exactly by weird. Because somehow it felt like every answer you gave was something that you couldn’t exactly describe. Something you had to just see for yourself. "Hey guys," he smiled as he entered the lecture hall. You and your fellow classmates all chorused some greetings. ‘Hi’ ‘Good morning’ ‘Hello’ all heard from throughout the room. 

Jungwon surveyed the room after he set his stuff down. Acting as if he was noting attendance but he was really trying to find you and the guy whose name seemed to send you over the edge—not in a good way. You were always easy to spot because you always occupied the same seat. Or at least a seat in the general area so he never had to look too far. And low and behold, there was Riki. Sat directly behind. He never seemed to be far from you. 

Jungwon’s gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary before your shy little smile caught his attention. A barely-there wave, hand lifting just off the desk, like it was meant for no one to notice. A soft Hi mouthed across the room.

He smiled back.

Jungwon kept his expression casual as he started the lecture. But his brain? Fully elsewhere. Yet his subconscious just knew the material. It was like he was on auto-pilot. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting to see—but this? This dance? The barely-there glances and stilted body language? It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t hate either. It was…something uncomfortable. Intimate. Sharp like a paper cut.

Throughout the lecture, Jungwon would make a joke or pose a question, and you’d smile or laugh—and Riki would react. Not directly. Not outwardly. But there was a flicker of something behind his eyes every time you were pulled into someone else’s orbit.

Possessiveness? No. Not quite.

Awareness. He could work with awareness.

At one point, Jungwon asked a discussion question. The room went silent. You didn’t raise your hand, but Riki did. Voice calm, confident, and direct.

Jungwon watched you react to that. A blink. A shift. The faintest look toward him like you were waiting for a punchline.

But Riki didn’t look at you. Not even once. Which almost made it worse. Like he didn’t have to.

By the time class ended, Jungwon had filled three mental pages with observations he wasn’t sure what to do with. He wasn’t trying to meddle. Wasn’t even sure if he could. But he’d seen enough to know something wasn’t sitting right.

So as students packed up, he walked to his desk and clicked his pen closed. Then, for no reason at all, his gaze flicked back to Riki. And Riki was already looking at him.

—

The last backpack zips, chatter fades, doors clap shut. Jungwon closes his laptop but keeps his eyes on the tall kid who’s still lounging like the room’s a private suite. "Mr. Nishimura—got a sec?"

Riki pauses mid-scroll, thumb hovering over whatever meme he’s pretending to be enthralled in. "Sure, Professor."

The casual swagger is turned up to eleven, but Jungwon’s already perceived the tension hiding in his shoulders. He motions to the front row. "Sit."

Riki drops into the seat, a smirk ready-made. "What’s up? You wanna roast my paper, too?"

"Your paper’s fine. This is…different." Jungwon folds his arms, leaning on the desk. "I’ve noticed you and her have a lively…dynamic."

Riki’s grin wobbles one millimeter. "Dynamic. Nice word."

"Of course," Jungwon deadpans. "Listen, healthy competition is great. But when one person looks ready to bolt every time the other walks in? That’s not just rivalry."

Riki shrugs—classic slow roll of broad shoulders. "She and I mess with each other. It’s mutual."

"Is it mutual when she’s gripping the edge of her desk like a life preserver?"

Silence. A muscle jumps in Riki’s jaw.

Jungwon softens his voice. "I’m not here to police friendships. But I am responsible for how my students treat each other in my space. And I care about her well-being. I hope you know the same would apply if it was the other way around."

Something flickers in Riki’s eyes—gone before Jungwon can name it. Guilt? Offense? Both? "She’s tough," Riki says finally, quieter than before. "She’s fine."

"Maybe. It still doesn’t hurt to be considerate."

Riki exhales through his nose, gaze sliding to the classroom door. "You done, sir?"

"For now." Jungwon straightens, giving him an out. "Just think about what I said."

Riki stands, slings his bag over one shoulder. "Thinking’s dangerous."

Jungwon smiles slightly. "I’ll take my chances."

Riki huffs a laugh—more breath than sound—then heads for the exit. Jungwon watches, filing away every micro-expression for later. He isn’t sure he got through, but at least a seed’s been planted.

— Later that day—

You knocked on Jungwon’s door, waiting for his permission to enter. As you heard it, you poked your head through the door. "Hi," you smiled. "Are you busy?"

Jungwon slightly closed his laptop as a way to let you know you had his attention. "No, what’s up?" For some reason, seeing your face warmed him. He couldn’t explain the feeling.

"Nothing, I was just wondering if I could chill here? I still have a ton of things to do and I don’t wanna go to the library beca—" You ranted frantically but he held up his hand to interrupt you. "Please, you don’t need an excuse to come here. It’s okay, you’re my friend." He nodded as he eyed you warmly. "Make yourself comfortable."

Somehow, hearing the word ‘friend’ sent something warm through you too. Stepping through the door and closing it behind you, you sat down on that brown leather couch. "Thanks, um…so do you have any classes or are you done for the day?" You took your laptop out of your bag and opened it, waiting for it to power on. 

"With classes, yeah. But I have a meeting in like ten minutes." He said, eyes locked in on his own stuff. 

You frowned, feeling like you were in the way. "Wait—then I can just go or come back later—"

He laughed a little, "If I didn’t want you here I would’ve said so. It’s just a department meeting." Again, waving you off.

"I don’t wanna be an impudence, you know? I can just go then come back after."

Jungwon tilted his head as he looked at you. "Are you gonna steal or break anything?" He muffled a laugh as he asked baseless questions.

Your brows furrowed, "No,"

He shrugged, "Okay, I trust you. It’s not a big deal."

You nodded silently, ultimately deciding not to fight him on this as you retreated back to your laptop. Working on some assignments and today’s Wordle.

Though as things fell into a silence, you looked up to see him gathering his things. 

He slipped on his adorable blue sweater-vest and tossed a couple of papers into a folder before sliding it into his bag. 

"You sure you don’t mind me being here?" you asked again, quieter this time.

Jungwon looked over his shoulder at you as he adjusted the strap on his bag. "It’s no sweat,"

You shrugged, sheepish. "I just don’t wanna overstep."

He walked toward the door but paused before opening it. "You won’t. Seriously."

You offered a small smile, and he smiled back before pointing at you like he was making a very official declaration. "Don’t burn the place down. You know where the snacks are. There’s a blanket in the cabinet. Water is in the fridge but you can have whatever. And if anyone asks, I did not leave you unattended."

You snorted. "What kind of things do you think I get up to?"

"I’ve seen the way you rage at your laptop," he teased. "I don’t trust that thing’s lifespan."

You opened your mouth, offended. "Wordle betrayed me the last time!"

"Mhm," he hummed, already opening the door. "If my office’s on fire when I get back, I’m blaming Wordle."

"Tell your department it was worth it," you called after him, watching as he disappeared down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward. Just peaceful. You took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch, the glow of your laptop illuminating your face.

But you closed it, figuring that you just weren’t in the mood for your history assignment. It wasn’t due for another three weeks anyway. You slipped it back into your bag and stood up, as now you could finally get a feel for Jungwon’s space now that he was absent. You started with the walls, inspecting them but not touching anything out of fear that a sudden clumsiness would overcome you. Like any other professor, he had his degrees on display. Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts, then Doctor of Philosophy. All under thirty, how did he do it? You wonder. Or maybe it may very well be possible, you didn’t know the first thing about graduate school at this juncture.

But none of the things on the wall seemed entirely too personal. Besides the degrees, there were cute paintings—one he had done himself and another one that he seemed to have bought. But the real magic was in the bookshelf. The enormous recessed bookshelf that took up the entire wall was made of media spanning a myriad of genres, authors, topics. From Hughes, Dickinson, Orwell, to Vonnegut. To sci-fi, horror, nonfiction, romance, contemporary, etc. He even had textbooks with the sticky tabs and annotation stickers in them. Multiple to one page. 

To which it wasn’t like any of this didn’t make sense. As established, Jungwon was an academic and the thing about academics is that they don’t like to be wrong in anything. That if they find that there is something they don’t know then they do everything in their power to know everything there is to know about that topic. That seemed to be the case here. It was either that or they’re especially skilled in a subject matter and fall short in literally everything else.

Out of curiosity, your eyes fell on The Souls of Black Folk and you plucked it off the shelf. With a content sigh, you go back to the couch and make yourself comfortable. Lying down on the cushion, the leather rubbing together and giving way beneath your weight—you rested your head on a soft throw pillow and opened the book to sink your teeth into it. Of Our Spiritual Strivings. For the next twenty minutes you flipped through the pages, digesting the heavy content but nonetheless—enjoying the serenity that comes with Jungwon’s space. 

Everything about him was just so calming and forgiving. Whether he was here or not, Jungwon ensured that you were safe no matter what. Not just physically but emotionally and really it felt nice to finally have someone in a place where you felt like you didn’t belong. You heard fidgeting at the doorknob and sat up with a slight smile, gosh—you felt like a fucking dog. You put the book down in your lap and quickly…fixed your hair?

But on the other side of the door, came in a slightly taller guy. The feline, the panther you were all too familiar with and you had never felt your mood deflate so hastily. "Hey, Dr. Yang, I was won—oh…"

Riki stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, blinking at the sight of you curled up on Jungwon’s couch like you belonged there. His brows lifted, and something unreadable flickered across his face—like he had walked into a room expecting applause and got dead silence instead. "Oh," he repeated, stepping inside anyway. He didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. "Didn’t know this was a friends-only zone now."

You sat up straighter, subtly sliding the book off your lap like it hadn’t just become your emotional support paperback. "He’s not here," you said simply. Riki’s gaze dropped to the book as he walked in further. "Yeah, no shit." He tilted his head, surveying the space like he owned stock in it. "Didn’t think I’d find you here though. What’s this? Weekly playdate with your fave professor?"

You narrowed your eyes. "I’m studying."

He glanced at the lax body language, you were sitting up now but clearly from the dent—you were comfortable. Then at the open book. Then back to you, all amusement. "Yeah. Real intense study session you got going on. You highlight with your eyes, huh?" You rolled your eyes, grabbing the throw pillow behind you and tossing it lightly at him. "You’re so annoying."

He caught it easily, holding it against his chest with a mock expression of betrayal. "You wound me. I come in here, innocent, curious, seeking intellectual growth—"

"You were looking for Jungwon."

"Jungwon?" He tilted his head with a shock behind his smile. Laughing—almost maniacally through it. "You’re on a first name basis?" You shrugged, "There’s nothing wrong with making friends with a professor or getting to know people." Playing with the sleeves of your knitted sweater as you avoided his eye contact. But Riki was anything—but he wasn’t stupid. A beat of silence.

"You like him."

Your eyes snapped up, and for a split second, your mouth opened like you were about to fire back something clever—something—but nothing came out.

Riki was already smirking slightly.

"I don’t like him," you said finally, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

He held your gaze like he was testing it for cracks. "Yeah? ‘Cause you look real comfortable for someone who’s just friends with their professor. Got your little pillow fort going, reading Du Bois like you’re about to rock yourself to sleep."

You scoffed. "You act like I broke into his office."

"I wouldn’t put it past you," he said, stepping closer, tossing the pillow gently back onto the couch—your couch now, apparently. "We all know how much of a weird freak you are. You probably write about him in your diary. Sniff his seat. Snort his eraser shavings."

"I don’t like him," you said again, this time slower. Firmer. "He’s nice. That’s it."

Riki nodded, almost like he was accepting that. Almost. "I don’t blame you if you did. He’s good-looking, mature, stable, and kind. Accepting. Which is something you really need more than ever." He snickered toward the end of his statement. "But I think it’s best if you told your boyfriend that I’m no bully." He said, tilting his head as he tried to muffle his frustration. "Sending your new bestie to press me about our friendly little ‘dynamic’ is a fucking cop-out and you know it." He crosses his arms as he peers down at you.

Again, as confused as ever, you shook your head as if it would somehow let loose anything that you may have forgotten. "What are you—I never—"

"Stop fucking lying to me." Riki said firmly as edged closer to the couch. "If me and you have our spats that’s one thing, but siccing a professor on me is low. And I’m sure that you know that by now I can go lower."

This was classic Riki. Conversations with him always started as teasing, maybe a little lighthearted but he never failed to remind you of who he was and who you were. He always flipped the script—started with a smirk, ended with a knife. You stood up slowly from the couch, the book in your lap forgotten, still open on your last page. "I didn’t send anyone after you," you said, voice steady, though your hands were starting to feel too warm. "I don’t even know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t play dumb," Riki snapped, tone just shy of venom. "Yang cornered me after class. Real casual, real calm. Asking me what’s up with you, how I treat you, what our history is. Sounded like a concerned boyfriend trying not to sound like one."

You blinked. "And that automatically means I sent him?"

"Yes," he snapped again, "who else?"

You paused, because…okay, fine. He had a point there. But still.

"I didn’t tell him to do anything," you repeated. "He just—cares. People can care, Riki. Not everyone is out to get you."

"Right," he scoffed. "But I’m the manipulative one, right?"

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you weren’t sure what answer would even matter to him right now. There was silence. A thick, electric kind that made the small office suddenly feel like it had no oxygen.

Then: Riki exhaled through his nose and looked away. "You know what pisses me off?" he muttered. "You say I have power over you, like I’m holding something over your head. But you let me get to you. And I don’t know if it’s because you want me to or because you think I deserve to." He looked at you again, softer this time, but somehow that made it worse. "But either way, you always pretend like I’m the only problem. And you don’t even see how much of a liar that makes you. It’s almost like you get off on it. On me, ‘making your life miserable’ when you invite this."

It was a quiet kind of blow. The kind you don’t dodge because it didn’t come with fire—it came with fact. And the worst part was that you didn’t have a defense. "Look," he put his hands up in concession. "All I’m saying is be careful. We wouldn’t want Dean Park to find out just in case this camaraderie teetered just over the edge of Bible study." He smiles, but like always there was nothing behind it.

"You wouldn’t." You mumbled in disbelief. 

"You don’t know what I would do." He smiled as he tilted his head. "Right?" Riki scans your body language: defensive, slightly worried. Much to his shame—which he doesn’t know if he has any—something horrid, deep-seated loves to see you squirm.

Just the power he exercises over you and stirs something in the pit of his stomach. Something about you cowering under the weight of his gaze ignites a flame somewhere inside of him. He doesn’t even know if he likes you, he just likes the reactions you give him because he knows you don’t have the gumption to really stand up for yourself. 

Huh, so maybe it was improper to blame you.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because he was right—at least about some of it. Maybe most of it. You didn’t know anymore. It was like every word from his mouth rewrote the rules of the game you didn’t even realize you were playing. Riki took a slow step forward, like a predator testing the limits of a snare he’d already set. "See," he said, voice low, almost sweet, "it’s not that I want to make your life hell. I don’t wake up thinking, ‘how do I ruin her day today?’" He paused. "Most days."

That grin again. Wolfish.

"But you let me. And I think you like being the victim more than you’d admit. It’s easier, right? To play helpless? To act like you don’t have choices. Like I’m the one who pulls every string when half the time, you hand me the scissors."

You hated that his words sank deep enough to sting. Hated even more that part of you wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or just shame for being so easily read.

"I’m not helpless," you muttered, quiet but firm.

He nodded slowly, eyes glinting. "Prove it."

The challenge hung between you like smoke. But you didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you didn’t know what proving it even meant anymore. So Riki just gave a short, dismissive exhale and backed away again, straightening his hoodie as he nodded in acceptance. "That’s what I thought."

He didn’t look at you when he opened the door this time. Didn’t give you another smirk or threat. Just paused, hand on the knob, and said, "you and your ‘friend’ better keep my name out of your mouth." 

Then he walked right out—closing the door softly in his wake.

—

Not even five minutes later, the door clicked open again.

"Meeting ended early," Jungwon said brightly as he stepped in, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and his messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder. "Thank God, too. I think if one more person said the word ‘interdisciplinary’ I was gonna—"

He stopped short when he saw you.

Your posture was stiff. Book in your lap, but your hands weren’t turning the pages anymore. You weren’t even looking at it. You were just…sitting. Quiet. Still. Something about the air shifted. Jungwon’s smile dipped, just a little. "Hey," he said more gently now. "You okay?"

You blinked like you’d been underwater. "Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine."

"Are you sure?" He moved toward you slowly, setting his bag down. "You look kinda out of it."

You shook your head, trying to wave it off, forcing a laugh. "Just tired. My bad. I think your couch tricked me into feeling too cozy. I think I’m gonna call it a night."

Jungwon didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. He didn’t argue. Didn’t laugh it off or try to fill the space too quickly. He just studied you for a beat, then walked over—slowly—and crouched by the couch so you were eye-level.

"You sure?" he asked, gently.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t mean to look away, but you did.

Then, quieter: "You don’t have to say what happened. But you don’t have to leave either. Not unless you want to."

You finally looked at him. There was no pressure in his gaze, no pity. Just that same calm, open patience that always felt like an invitation. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was weak—but you didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to be alone.

So instead of grabbing your bag, you let out a breath and nodded. "Okay," you whispered.

Jungwon offered a small smile—barely there. "Good." He stood and moved to the small kettle tucked in the corner. "Chamomile or lemon?"

You closed your eyes for a second. Let your body sink into the couch again.

"Lemon," you said. "Please."

—

He brought two mismatched mugs to you, handing you one like it was sacred. That if you even touched it with the wrong finger it’d burn you. Which is true, it could’ve.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Wanna hear something truly embarrassing?"

You glanced at him, suspicious. "More embarrassing than pretending to be an expert in garbage rom-coms?"

"Tragically, yes."

You gestured grandly. "By all means."

He exhaled, already laughing at himself. "Alright. When I was like thirteen, I went through this huge Greek mythology phase. Like, read every book, watched every documentary, made a family tree of the gods...I was in deep."

You squinted. "That’s not embarrassing. That’s just being a gifted kid with a hyperfixation."

"Wait for it." He held up a hand. "So one day, I decided I wanted to live like a demigod. I carried a plastic sword around the house. Made my mom call me ‘Son of Athena.’ Tried to sneak ambrosia—which was just honey and Gatorade—into my lunchbox."

You choked on your tea. "Stop."

"I even made a Camp Half-Blood bead necklace out of macaroni." His voice cracked from the shame. "And wore it. To school."

You leaned forward, wheezing. "Oh my God, you LARPed?!"

"I trained," he said, dead serious. "In the backyard. My neighbors thought I was a sword-obsessed theater kid."

"Were they wrong?"

He shrugged. "Honestly? They weren’t too far off."

The two of you dissolved into quiet laughter again, and for a second, the tension that had been clawing at your ribs all afternoon just...let go.But when the giggles subsided and your tea had cooled, you finally glanced at him sideways. "Jungwon…"

He looked at you over the rim of his mug. "Hm?"

"I know you pulled Riki aside after class."

A beat. "What…? No."

You didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow to communicate that he already knew how. Jungwon sighed, looking almost bashful. "Yeah. I did."

"Please don’t do that again." You sigh as you put the mug on the couch-side table and turn to him with a slight frown.

His eyes snapped to you, surprised.

You tucked your legs up on the couch and turned to face him. "I appreciate you looking out, really. I do. But I don’t need you to defend me. I’m a big girl."

There was a pause. Then a quiet, almost guilty: "I get that. I just…I’m your friend. And—"

"You are my friend," you interrupted softly. "But you’re also our professor."

You saw it in the way the glint in his eyes dimmed, just slightly. Like he hadn’t thought about it that way until right now. He quickly suppressed these feelings. Because after hearing that and the way it made him feel, he started to panic. Just a bit though, he didn’t want to think too much into it.

So he nods curtly, "Yeah. No, yeah. Totally. You’re right, I overstepped. I’m sorry."

You shook your head fervently, "No, you’re good." You put your hand out to rest onto his instantaneously. And neither one of you moved. "You didn’t have any ill intentions at all and that’s fine, I’m not upset. I just didn’t think you would say something to him." Laughing awkwardly, you look down at your lap. Jungwon looked down at your warm hand that covered his own, and it wasn’t until he looked at them that he felt some tingling in his stomach. "I know…I just—you’re genuinely so compassionate…and lovely. No one deserves to be treated the way you are. And I may not have seen exactly what he’s done but I see the way you look around him. Like…your body shrivels up, you feel threatened or something. So I figured that if I’m in the position where I could stop it then…" He sighed as he nodded in understanding. "I wanted to…I just wanted to advocate for you."

You smiled faintly at his words. Small, but sincere. Because even if it stung before, hearing it from him now—so earnestly—it softened something in you.

"I get that," you murmured. "And…thank you. Really. You didn’t have to, but you did."

He let out a breath through his nose, some tension loosening in his shoulders. "It just didn’t sit right with me. The way he talks to you, like he’s always trying to win something. It’s on the cusp of bullying. He’s weaponizing his own strengths against someone he perceives to be inferior. I think it’s improper to not call it what it is."

You didn’t respond to that. Mostly because he wasn’t wrong.

Jungwon caught your silence and added gently, "I’m sorry if I made it worse. I wasn’t trying to step in for you, I just…I wanted him to know someone was paying attention. That somebody cares."

You nodded slowly, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the back of his hand. "I think I needed to hear that more than I realized."

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and it made your heart skip. Not because it was romantic, but because it felt like he saw you. Like he’d been seeing you this whole time, even when you tried so hard to disappear into the background.

For a second, you sat in the quiet, hand in his, both of you absorbing the moment. Then you said, more to yourself than to him, "It’s...hard to accept help when you’re used to feeling like a burden."

He didn’t try to offer some corny fix-it response. Didn’t say "you’re not a burden" or "you should talk to someone." He just gave your hand the lightest squeeze. "Whatever it is, I got you. I won’t do that again unless I feel that there’s serious danger. Mental, physical…you know." Jungwon pursed his lips, showcasing his small dimples. Took everything in you not to poke them.

But you sighed of relief, "Thank you,"

He smiled at you—soft and genuine, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. "Of course."

You let your eyes fall to your intertwined hands again, then gave his a gentle squeeze back before slowly pulling away. Not because you wanted to, but because any longer and you were scared of what it might start to mean. Thus, you just started to fill the silence. "You know, I actually had a Greek mythology phase too." 

Jungwon’s brows perked up, "Really?" He leaned back on the couch as he grabbed your mug to pass it to you as he grabbed his. 

Smiling, "Yeah, I watched this entire video on the history of Greek mythology. It was like…from the very beginning with the sun, the moon, all that. Then to like the stories of Arachne and the achilles heel thing." You looked down at your mug, your finger slowly circled the rim of it. "Basically the chronology of it." You sipped the tea, letting it warm your insides.

He smiles, "Arachne? I don’t quite remember that one—"

You perked up, "Oh my gosh, I get to teach the brilliant professor something?" 

Jungwon laughed gently, eyes not leaving you. "I guess so," he sipped his chamomile. "Do tell," 

You adjusted on the couch and put the mug down again. Sitting in the butterfly position on the couch and you hugged one of the throw pillows to your chest. "Okay, so basically Arachne was a very skilled weaver. By the way, there are a few different tellings but I’m just going by Ovid’s—the Roman poet’s—account. Okay wait," You smiled brightly as you started, getting excited as you love to show off your knowledge. But you also felt some sort of catharsis of having someone to listen to you.

"So yes, Arachne was so boastful of her skills as a weaver that she challenged Athena—we all know Athena—to see who could weave the best. So they did and whatever," you waved your hands around as you rambled. "So get this, Athena weaved a tapestry that showcased idiotic mortals like Arachne that dared to challenge the gods. Arachne depicted gods—specifically Zeus, Athena’s dad—abusing mortal women. And she did so beyond well—are you following?" You put your hand out to make sure he was listening.

Jungwon grinned as he leaned in a little, eyes warm with amusement and interest. "Yes ma’am."

You beamed, encouraged. "So Athena was pissed because she saw that for one: Arachne not only outdid her—but also disrespected her and the gods with her tapestry. So she breaks Arachne’s loom, tears her tapestry, and beats her. Arachne—so humiliated—tries to hang herself but Athena stops her. Cursing her and turning her into the first spider."

Jungwon blinked. "Wow…"

"Mhm," You nodded, "This is where people say ‘arachnid’ and ‘arachnophobia’ originate. But in a way, it’s an onus probandi of how those in power treat others that just aren’t on their level. Just the overall politics behind it…"  

He hummed thoughtfully, letting the silence fill with your excitement. "So it wasn’t about arrogance?" Jungwon smiled gently, enjoying your tirade. And while the story itself was dark—seeing you feel fulfilled at getting to recount something you knew felt good enough.

"Actually no," you shook your head, pursing your lips as you tried to mentally unravel. "It’s just more so about the discomfort. Like the dissonance of it. Athena knew what was wrong, but seeing yourself in the mirror isn’t always nice."

He already knew that—all of it. You spotted Metamorphoses tucked between a collection of Yeats and some worn poetry journals on the shelf behind him. But you didn’t call him out. Didn’t ruin the game. Instead, you just let yourself enjoy the way he looked at you like every word out of your mouth was brand new.

It hit you then, quietly, how carefully he was listening. Not out of obligation, or boredom disguised as politeness. He was fully tuned in—not just to the story, but to you. And maybe it was the tea, or the late hour, or the way your hand had still not quite forgotten the shape of his—but the realization made your chest feel a little too full.

So you smiled, softer this time, letting your eyes drop from his face to the spine of that familiar book. You said nothing.

But a part of you—traitorous and stupidly hopeful—filed it away anyway.

—

Riki walked back to his dorm as he’s never felt so sick to his stomach in his life.

Seriously, you like Dr. Yang? Even if you denied it, he could tell. How you were just left unattended in his office, laid up on his couch, a random book on your lap? He saw the tenderness in your eyes, how protective you already were of him. The way you said his name like if you did then all of your prayers would be answered. A part of Riki knew that he had nothing to worry about, you were the student and he was the professor, the educator. As young as he is and as much as he’s accomplished thus far, there’s no way he’d throw all of that away for you. Someone like you.

You were awkward, had low self-esteem, anxious, and only mildly neurotic. Okay, maybe a little more than mild but it was sort of endearing. At least to Riki. Actually, what did that fucking dork do to deserve you? Riki’s been here all along. Doing his best to be a friend, he hasn’t been the best but that’s okay! At least you have someone beside yourself.

Sure, Jungwon was cool. Funny, warm, radiant, irritatingly handsome, and everything that anyone could swoon over. He was accomplished and considerate. 

All of the things that Riki was or could be. He just so desperately wished you could see it. 

Yes, he sort of bullied you. He did call you pathetic and frequently belittled you, but it was all in good fun. He got off on seeing you cower, see that fear in your eyes when he even looked at you for more than three seconds. Riki entered his dorm, slamming the heavy metal door behind him as he slid out of his sneakers. Stepping out of them by leaning his weight on the back of them, then recklessly throwing his sweater down on the floor. Pacing the space between his bed and the desk, he ran his hand through his hair as he felt himself slightly tugging at the roots of it. His breath was labored, stomach burning and twisting, hands shaking, sweat building on his forehead. Riki was losing himself, falling short of the cool façade that he had always been so good at maintaining. 

He was unraveling.

And for what? A girl who flinched when he raised his voice? Who could barely hold eye contact when he leaned in too close?

But still—you were his. Not officially, not romantically, maybe not even in any real way that held weight in the world outside his head. But in his gut, deep in that dark, corrosive part of him, Riki knew: you belonged to him. Not in the healthy, reasonable way. In the ‘you get under my skin and I don’t know how to live without it’ kind of way. The kind of way that made him feel both powerful and powerless all at once. He clenched his fists and sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing his knee, shaking. He couldn’t get your face out of his head—the way you smiled at Jungwon, that stupid, soft, precious smile like you trusted him.

It made Riki’s stomach churn. Because he knew what that trust looked like on you. How rare it was. And how quickly it could be broken.

"Fuck," he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. His voice was hoarse with resentment, like the emotion had been smoking cigarettes in his chest all night. "No, no, no."

He couldn’t stop thinking: did Jungwon touch you?

Not like that. No—God, he hoped not like that. But like...did he touch your hand? Your arm? Did you let him? Did you lean into it?

Riki leaned forward though, elbows on his knees, eyes dark as they burned into the floor.

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

But what if you already did?

What if you looked at Jungwon the way you used to look at him?

Before all of this, you used to look at him shyly. That at the beginning, the little banter and wit used to be fun. Beneath the little competition was some sort of lightness. But even before that, Riki could tell that you had thought he was cute at least, a little crush. Which he’s used to from people. Lingering glances, how your posture shifted talking to him, you could never look him in the eye as you laughed softly at his jokes even when he wasn’t trying. But he saw you struggling to make friends, struggling to get on with your peers. Getting rejected left and right by others and a part of him wanted to step in to defend you. To tell them that you weren’t weird or a loser. But he never did, he just agreed with them. He conformed and followed along with them because he’d rather be accepted by all than just you. Someone miniscule that was easily forgotten to most. 

But not him, never him.

You were never forgettable to Riki. You were the first one to laugh at his jokes before you even really knew him. The one who always showed up on time, even when nobody else did. Who had a weird way of tapping your fingers when you were anxious and tried to act like it was just fidgeting. You were so easy to read and so damn hard to shake. So yeah, maybe he liked when you looked at him like he could ruin you. Maybe he leaned into it. Maybe he said things that made you flinch—watched you crumble just a little, because it meant you were still his. Still reacting to him.

He didn’t even care what he said to you, he just cared that this beautiful girl that didn’t comprehend her beauty—was reacting to him. He had gotten used to your attention and affections and hated how dependent he was on you for that high every single time. Jungwon didn’t understand it, at least not from his perspective. And he never would, he’d never understand what you and Riki had. 

But he was going to make him understand.

—

Do you ever get a sense of impending doom?

Like you wake up with a pit in your stomach and you can’t explain why. Nothing has happened yet, but something feels…off. Like the day has already decided it’s going to go badly and you’re just the last one to find out.

Those are the kinds of days where everything starts slightly wrong.

Your phone dies overnight even though you swear you plugged it in. The sky outside is gray and heavy, but you convince yourself it’s fine—until you step outside and realize it’s way colder than it looked from the window. Too late to go back for a jacket now, because your class is all the way across campus and you’ve already been late twice this week.

So you suck it up. It’s fine. You’ll deal with it. Maybe eat some ginger later so you don’t catch a cold.

Just this cloud looming over your head as it dampened a side of you that tried to mask. But that’s all you could do right now, nothing bizarre happened. Nothing that could start to have you misaligned. At least not now anyway.

—

Across campus, Jungwon was being called into the dean’s office.

He hadn’t thought much of the email at first. It had come in early that morning while he was reviewing lecture notes, subject line simple and clinical: Please stop by my office when you have a moment.Not unusual. Professors were called in all the time for scheduling issues, department updates, student concerns.

Still, something about the wording had been…oddly stiff.

Jungwon adjusted the strap of his bag as he walked down the administrative hallway, the quiet there always a little heavier than the rest of campus. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps.

When he reached the door, he knocked twice.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

Jungwon stepped in with a polite smile already prepared. "Good morning, Dean Park. You wanted to see—"

He stopped when he noticed the expression on the Dean’s face. Not cavalier, not angry. Just stern. Too serious for a routine check-in. "Please," Dean Park said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Jungwon sat. And that was when the pit started forming in his stomach too.

"So…Mr. Yang—it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with one of your students outside of class." He straightens, folding his hands on the mahogany desk. The only noise being the pendulum on the other end of it. 

Jungwon blinked. "I’m sorry?"

"A report was filed this morning." 

"I…" Jungwon shook his head in disbelief, silence insisting as he tried to formulate a semblance of a word. His mind was scrambling to catch up with what he’d just heard. "I’m not sure what you mean by ‘outside of class,’ sir. And what report?"

Dean Park studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.

"A student has expressed concern," he said carefully. "Specifically regarding the nature of your interactions with them in your office."

Jungwon’s stomach dropped. Your face flashed across his mind before he could stop it. He sat up a little straighter in the chair. "With respect, Dean Park," he said, voice steadier than he felt, "my office hours are open to any student who needs help. If someone came to speak with me about coursework or academic concerns, that’s well within university policy."

The dean didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he opened a folder sitting on his desk. "That may be," he said slowly. "However, the report suggests the interactions may have gone beyond that."

"Again, sir. I’m not sure what you—"

"Mr. Yang."

Dean Park’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm enough to cut cleanly through the room. "This is a serious allegation."

He folded his hands again, fingers steepled now as he regarded Jungwon across the desk.

"I am not making any conclusions about your guilt at this time," he continued evenly. "But if the claims outlined in this report are accurate, the repercussions would be…significant."

Jungwon felt his stomach twist. Significant. That word alone carried enough weight to sink a career.

"Which is why," Dean Park said, tapping the folder lightly with one finger, "I need you to be completely honest with me."

A beat passed.

"Have you been meeting privately with this or any student outside of your scheduled office hours?"

Jungwon’s heart was beating in his ears, drowning out of the click-clacking of the pendulum on the desk. For the first time in a very long time could he finally identify what it felt like to be a fucking hypocrite.

He has a PhD in Theology. 

Years of his life were spent studying moral philosophy, religious ethics, the long, complicated history of human temptation and restraint. He had written entire papers about the responsibility people carried when placed in positions of power. About the dangers of blurred boundaries. About the quiet arrogance of believing you were the exception to the rule.

If Jungwon knew anything besides Greek mythology, it was that people rarely believed they were doing something wrong while they were doing it.

It always started smaller than that. A conversation that lasted a little longer than it should. A door left closed instead of open. A student lingering on the couch while he pretended not to notice how comfortable the moment had become.

None of it had felt inappropriate at the time. But sitting here now, under the weight of Dean Park’s gaze, it suddenly looked very different. Jungwon swallowed.

"No." He shook his head. "No. I’ve never spent time with any student outside of my office hours."

—

You got up to your usual routine. Despite the nagging feeling—you had deadlines. The agitating, fluorescent lights above hummed in the quiet library. 

In the small nook that you were in, there weren’t many people in your line of sight. All you could see where the metal shelves were starting to collect dust. The setting sun that shone through the stained glass window reminded you of just how old this building was. The table you sat at, so small—but just enough space for you and your laptop. Which was all you needed right now. 

You typed, typed, and typed away but felt you weren’t getting anywhere. The cogs in your brain were useless without some sort of direction. You kept typing, then deleting, typing half sentences—then rearranging them. Writing things that really had no meaning. 

Fuck…this is pointless.

With a grunt, you closed the lid of your laptop. Sighing, as you pout—leaning against the back of your chair—and hold your head. Eyes looking down as they trace every last detail of the wooden table—you could practically feel your head throbbing from the outside. You were hard pressed for these deadlines and you had the motivation. But nothing to help you to actually conceptualize it and put your words to text. Not a single coherent thought to put on the page. 

But fortunately, you had as much luck as a broken mirror.

It happened in a flash. You closed your eyes, blinking as you started to carefully massage your temples. Then the moment you opened them again—a strong hand was played firmly on the table. Right before your eyes.

Only then did you flinch, placing your hand on your heart as you gasped. "Oh shit!" 

A slow chuckle followed. "Relax," Riki said, pulling the chair across from you without asking. "So jumpy…"

He leaned his elbows on the table, eyes flicking over your laptop.

"Still stuck on that paper?" he asked lightly. "You’ve been staring at that screen for, what…twenty minutes now?"

Your eyes flit to the side, "you’ve been watching me for twenty minutes…?" You didn’t think your instincts were so inconsistent.

He interlocked his fingers together, setting his chin on them as he shrugged. A small smirk playing on his face. His eyes glinted, like there was a fun little secret that he just couldn’t wait to share. 

"What do you want, Riki?" You huffed, rubbing your eyes as they burned from staring into the bright screen. 

For once, he smiled. Genuinely. A small flutter in his stomach as he finds that his mood lifts. "Nothing. I just…wanted to see what you had planned this weekend."

You blinked at him, that wasn’t the answer you expected. Your brows knit together slightly. "Why?"

Riki shrugged, leaning back in the chair like he had all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over his knee, posture loose, relaxed. "I was thinking," he said, tapping his fingers once against the table, "maybe we could hang out."

You couldn’t remember the last time Riki had asked to spend time with you without it sounding like a challenge or a joke at your expense. If anything, he was the one daring other people to talk to you. He was seconds from putting a ‘kick me’ sign on your back.

Your gaze drifted down to the table. "That’s…random," you murmured.

"Is it?" His tone was light.

When you didn’t immediately answer, Riki tilted his head slightly, watching you the way someone watches a puzzle they’ve already solved. "You look tired," he added.

Your shoulders stiffened a little. "I’m just stressed about this paper."

"Ah." His gaze flicked to your laptop again. "For Dr. Yang’s class, right?"

Your fingers paused against the edge of the table. "…Yeah."

"Well, I’m sure he’s in his office now." Riki nods to the exit. "I can walk you over—"

"What’s wrong with you? We’re not friends. Nor do you actually give a fuck about me, Riki." You squint, shaking your head in disbelief. 

He hums out a small laugh. "On the contrary, sweetheart. I actually care more than you think." He lets his hands go, rolling up his sleeves as he extends his long arms across the table. Flashing his strong arms and even flashier, silver watch. Without another word, he carefully grabs your hands. Tracing your knuckles with his thumbs as he feels himself start to feel a sense of vindication. He’s close. So close to you and he can feel it. Physically and in any other sense.  Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him across the small table, the faint scent of his cologne, the steady pressure of his hands holding yours in place. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

And something in his expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Like a tension finally easing beneath the surface.

Like something had just fallen into place.Riki’s thumbs were still tracing slow circles over your knuckles. "You know," he said lightly, like he was commenting on the weather, "people talk a lot on this campus."

Your brows pulled together. "What are you—"

A phone buzzed somewhere behind you.

Then another.

And another.

The quiet corner of the library shifted almost instantly. A couple of students near the shelves lifted their heads, glancing down at their screens. Someone whispered something under their breath. You barely noticed at first. Your attention was still caught on the strange look in Riki’s eyes. "Especially about professors," he added.

That made you pause. "…What?"

Riki didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifted past your shoulder, watching the room like he was waiting for something to happen.

Another phone buzzed on the table behind you.

"Did you see this?" someone whispered.

"No way…"

"Wait—is that the same guy from the theology department?"

Your stomach tightened. Slowly, you pulled one of your hands free from Riki’s grip and reached for your phone beside the laptop.

The screen lit up with a flood of notifications.

Department announcements. A campus forum thread climbing rapidly with new replies. Your chest felt suddenly tight as you opened the first message.

Campus Notice – Department of Religious Studies

Professor Jungwon Yang has been placed under temporary administrative review following allegations of inappropriate conduct with a student. Until further notice, all classes and office hours under his supervision are suspended.

For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.

You read them again.

And again.

Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs. "That’s…" you whispered.

Your vision flickered across the screen as more messages poured in.

Didn’t he just start teaching here? I heard it was with a student from one of his level one classes. Apparently someone reported seeing them alone in his office.

The air around you suddenly felt too thin. "That’s not—" Your voice cracked.

Across the table, Riki finally leaned back in his chair—letting your hand go. He looked almost relaxed now. Like someone who had just finished something difficult.

Or satisfying. "You okay?" he asked casually.

You looked up at him, eyes wide.

And for the first time that day, the pit in your stomach dropped all the way to the bottom. Because Riki wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. "Did…did you do this?" Your voice gave a little, heart thumping loudly in your ears that even if he were to answer—you may not even hear him. 

Riki didn’t immediately respond.

Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you pushed back from the table. "Oh my god," you whispered. Your hands moved on instinct—shoving the laptop into the sleeve, fumbling as you tried to force it into your backpack. Your fingers wouldn’t cooperate, trembling so badly you nearly dropped the zipper. "God, no. No, no, no." Your vision blurred suddenly, the shelves and tables melting into indistinct shapes as your eyes burned. "This isn’t real," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Across the table, Riki finally stood. "Hey," he said quietly.

The sound of his voice made something inside you snap.

You shook your head, stepping back from the table like distance might somehow fix this. "Don’t," you choked. "Don’t talk to me right now." Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t pull in enough air. "Don’t talk to me ever."

You brush past him, throwing your backpack over your shoulder as you hurried to the exit. Speedwalking to your—rather, someone else’s—demise. 

Riki didn’t follow.

He just stood there for a moment, the faint warmth of where you’d been still lingering in the air between the table and his chest.

Slowly, he inhaled. Your perfume clung faintly to the fabric of his sleeve where your shoulder had brushed past him. His eyes closed.

For a second, the chaos of the library—the whispers, the buzzing phones, the shifting chairs—faded into background noise. All that remained was the echo of you leaving.

Riki opened his eyes again, staring at the empty doorway. Then, almost absently, he dragged his thumb across his knuckles—the same place he’d been tracing yours minutes ago.

—

Oxygen didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to you anymore as you ran halfway across campus—haphazardly knocking into people, you wouldn’t be surprised if your laptop had a dent in it the way that it hit a lightpost. 

The elevator was too slow. So you took the stairs. 

By the third flight your lungs burned, breath scraping your throat like sandpaper. 

When the top of the stairs came on the horizon, your legs felt like Jell-O, threatening to buckle beneath you. You caught yourself on the rusted handrail, fingers slipping against the cold metal. The stairwell reeked faintly of bleach and something salty—old sweat soaked into concrete. Your lungs burned, each breath scraping painfully through your chest until your vision blurred at the edges.

But you couldn’t stop moving.

Your footsteps echoed too loudly in the concrete shaft and finally, you opened the door to look side-to-side—scanning the hallway only to find it empty. Almost ghostly.

But the fluorescent lights sang above your head as you ran down the hall. 

When you’d make your way down this hall, you used to associate it with excitement. Comfort. A slight feeling in your stomach that you didn’t know how to put your finger on.  It was the hallway where you’d first knocked nervously on his door.

Where he’d opened it with that warm, patient smile—like he had nowhere else to be, like your questions actually mattered.

Where conversations that were supposed to last ten minutes stretched into an hour without either of you noticing.

You used to slow down when you got close to his office.

Now you were sprinting.

Your shoes squeaked sharply against the polished floor as you turned the final corner—

—and stopped.

The door to his office stood closed. 

And through the small window in the door, you saw Jungwon’s back turned. He reached for various books on the shelf behind his desk as he tossed them haphazardly into a cardboard box. Like it didn’t matter anymore. For a moment, you didn’t move. You just stared.

The familiar office looked wrong somehow. Half the shelves were already empty, papers stacked in uneven piles across the desk. The couch where you’d spent so many afternoons sat untouched in the corner, a forgotten book still resting on the armrest.

Your throat tightened.

He picked up another book.

Paused.

Then set it down harder than necessary inside the box. The sound carried faintly through the door.

Something in your chest twisted painfully. You lifted your hand before you even realized you were doing it.

Your knuckles hovered inches from the wood. For a second, you hesitated.

Then you knocked.

Jungwon froze.

His shoulders went rigid, hand still resting on the edge of the box. Slowly, he turned toward the door—and when his eyes met yours through the small window the color drained from his face. The springs in the door handle creaked as you slowly opened the door. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Jungwon stood behind his desk, one hand still resting on the edge of the cardboard box. A few books were stacked unevenly inside—some of them you recognized instantly from the shelves you’d spent so much time staring at while pretending not to be nervous.

The room felt smaller now.

Too quiet.

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath from the run up the stairs, but it still felt like there wasn’t enough air in the world.

"Jungwon—" Your voice cracked, as you slowly shut the door with a click.

"It’s Dr. Yang." He said immediately. "And I’d rather you left the door open, thank you."

The words landed like a slap as your hand froze on the handle.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, stiffly, you pulled the door back open. The hallway outside hummed faintly with distant footsteps and muffled voices—proof that anyone could walk past and look inside.

You swallowed hard. "…Right."

Jungwon turned back to the box on his desk, picking up another book like the conversation was already over.

But his movements weren’t steady.

The book slipped slightly in his grip before he forced it into the box. "You shouldn’t be here," he repeated, quieter this time.

"Look, I didn’t report you." You sniffled, wiping your eyes as you wrapped your arms around yourself. That was the only form of self-soothing that you knew. "I wouldn’t do that."

"Well it doesn’t matter what you would and wouldn’t do. Because I’m out of here." He huffed, brushing his hair back and out of his face.

"What…?" Your eyes widened.

"I’ve been suspended." The words hung in the air. "Indefinitely."

"Ju—Dr. Yang," your voice shook as you tried to stifle your tears. "I’m so sorry—"

"Don’t bother," he smiled bitterly, the small dimples of his hardly showing were your surefire sign that he wasn’t as fine as he says. "This was my fault."

You shook your head frantically, "it’s not. Riki. It was him!" Your eyes stung with tears again as your breath started to thin. "It’s him! Always!" Letting out a sob as you gestured around the room. Not even caring, you shut the door to his dismay.

Jungwon’s hands froze mid-motion, a stack of papers trembling slightly in his grip. He took a sharp breath, forcing his voice to remain calm, but it carried a weight you could feel. "Riki?" His eyes searched yours, dark and unblinking. "He…did this?"

You nodded, hiccuping between sobs. "He always does! I didn’t even—he just—he…" You broke off, shoving your hands into your hair as if you could pull the chaos out of your head. "I’m telling you—I told you! He’s sick. He’s a sadistic asshole and that’s why I didn’t want you to say anything to him because he does…this!" You gesture to him. His cluttered desk. His nearly empty bookshelf. The plaques with his degrees and certifications that could mean absolutely nothing if things went even more left.

Jungwon’s eyes darkened, the dimples in his cheeks vanishing as his jaw tightened. He took a step closer, the office suddenly feeling smaller, tighter, suffocating even. "I…I had no idea it was this bad," he murmured, voice low, almost hoarse. "I thought…I thought it was just typical college rivalry nonsense. But this—"

You hiccuped again, trembling, and buried your face in your hands. "It’s not just nonsense! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He manipulates, bullies…he—he makes people fear him, including me. I—I shouldn’t have let him…I shouldn’t—" You sat down on the worn couch, burying your head in your lap as you locked your hands over your head. "I shouldn’t have dragged you into my shit. I’m so sorry." Your chest felt like an elephant sat on top of it, lurching as you wept into your jeans. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—"

Jungwon crouched down in front of the couch, careful not to loom over you too much. "Hey," he said softly, one hand hovering near yours before settling gently on your shoulder. "Stop apologizing. You didn’t drag me into anything. I…I wanted to help. That’s what friends do."

You shook your head violently, muffled sobs wracking your body. "No, you don’t understand. He—he’s…he’s not someone you deal with." Your words cracked and failed you, a choked gasp escaping instead. "He’s just—pure evil. He hates me. And he’s taking it out on you now."

Jungwon’s jaw tightened, a flash of anger flaring in his eyes, but he kept his voice low and steady. "I don’t care what he is. I care about you. And I’m not going anywhere."

You sniffled, trying to pull your hands from your face, but his presence made it harder to look away. "You can’t. You won’t be around and nearly everything in your life is about to crumble. E-everything you worked so hard for—" Shaking your head as tears come down in sheets.

"Look…if it gives you any consolation—" He sighed, closing his eyes as he felt the emotion build up further in his chest. "Gosh…" Turning his gaze away, dabbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers. 

Until he turned back to you with a small smile, huffing as he steadied himself. "If it gives you any consolation…" He carefully grabs your dampened, sweaty hands. Any other time he’d be repulsed, but he couldn’t help but overlook it all. "I’m not your professor anymore. So…I can be here for you." He nods slowly, patiently. "I can be here for you like I should. Like…like I’ve wanted to all along."

"Was my name on the report?" you barely choked out. "Was there—"

"To protect the identities of everyone involved, they won’t tell me who filed it," he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped.

"But," he continued, squeezing your hands once, gently, "they also won’t tell me who the student is supposed to be."

Your brows knitted together, confused.

"They’re treating it like a formal complaint," he explained. "Anonymous. Third-party report. Which means someone claimed they witnessed something."

Your breath caught. The name didn’t even need to be spoken. Jungwon watched the realization move across your face and his jaw tightened slightly.

"Hey," he said softly, grounding your hands again. "Look at me."

You forced your eyes up.

"This is important," he continued. "You were not named. And as long as you stay out of it, there’s a good chance they won’t drag you into the investigation."

"But they will drag you," you whispered.

A flicker of something tired crossed his face. "Yes," he admitted. "But that’s my problem to deal with," he added. "Not yours."

Your eyes filled again. "But it is mine," you insisted hoarsely. "Because he did this to hurt me. And now you’re—" Your voice cracked. "—paying for it."

For a moment Jungwon didn’t say anything. Then he shook his head slowly. "No," he said. His grip on your hands tightened just a little. "I made my own choices."

Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice.

"I let you stay here longer than I should have," he admitted softly. "I closed the door sometimes. I blurred lines that were supposed to stay very clear."

He exhaled through his nose. "So if someone decided to twist that into something else…" His shoulders lifted in a tired shrug. "…then I suppose I gave them the thread."

"Why—how is it that bad? It wasn’t like we were…inappropriate or anything?" You scoot over on the couch, making space for him to sit beside you.

Jungwon hesitated for a second before lowering himself down next to you. The cushions dipped slightly under his weight. "A bit," he said quietly. "But inappropriate isn’t just physical." He rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at the floor. "But universities don’t really wait for something to happen," he continued. "They step in when something looks like it could."

Your stomach twisted.

"They said it was a ‘boundary concern,’" he added with a dry huff. "A professor spending extended time alone with a student. Door closed. Personal conversations outside coursework. Allowing you to stay here in my absence." His fingers rubbed together absentmindedly, like he was still processing it. "To them, that’s enough. And realistically that is unethical. But again, that’s on me."

"But that’s ridiculous," you whispered.

"Maybe," he shrugged slightly. "But you have to understand, it’s not like this is high school where you’re a kid and I’m this age. That’s illegal and unethical and immoral and all of the other disgusting things. You and I are both adults and it’s not immoral and illegal. It’s simply unethical due to perceived power imbalances. Things like that could make one believe that I took advantage of you, coerced you, among other things."

You heard him. Understood him in full totality. But being a part of it was a very different feeling. Jungwon was three years older than you; it doesn’t sound crazy but you just hated that this was the reality of the situation. You wanted to refute it. To say that that’s incorrect because there was no coercion, mild flirting—maybe—but these rules are in place to protect others. And you were smart enough to know that. “I’d just hate for you to be angry at me.”

Jungwon leaned back slightly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "I’m not angry at you," he said gently. "I could never be. No matter how much I could even think to try—I couldn’t."

Your throat tightened. "I know," you murmured, even though the guilt still sat heavy in your chest.

For a moment neither of you spoke. 

Then his voice softened a little more. "And for what it’s worth…" he said, looking at you fully now, "I don’t regret the time we spent together."

Your eyes flickered to his. "You don’t?"

"No." He smiles softly, lifting his hand to place it on your hair, stroking it gently. "Not for a second." His voice broke as tears built up. Rather than his chest hurting, his stomach did.

Right as he looked you in the eye. In your red, swollen eyes. He saw everything that he worked for. Every accolade, every all-nighter, every program and research opportunity he took—Jungwon saw all of it crumbling before his eyes right before him. Every fellowship application he rewrote six times before submitting. Every professor that told him that he was brilliant, promising, the future of academia as they knew it.

And he was easy, just like every other young man his age—hearing such praise made him feel some sort of satisfaction. His chest puffed from the battery in his back.

Up until now, he could only remember as far back as his lover phase. 

His father was his best friend. Seeing him go to work, come home to him and his mother to support and care for them. Taking him to baseball and hockey games at one point. And Jungwon didn’t even care for sports—just seeing his dad cheer and fist pump whenever his favorite team scored made him feel a sense of pride. Getting to sit on his shoulders because he was too small to see over the adults in front of him. The roar of the stadium. His father fist-pumping when their team scored. The way his mom laughed every time Jungwon tried to mimic him.

And the day a ball sailed over the fence—

Right into his hands.

He could still remember the shock of it. The weight of it in his palm. Like the whole stadium had turned and looked at him for a moment. 

And he didn’t even care, he clapped. And cheered and smiled wide, kid teeth missing and all as he ruminated in the feeling of accomplishment.

Jungwon blinked. The office came rushing back into focus. The half-empty bookshelves. The cardboard box. And you sitting beside him on the couch.

He almost forgot that his hand was in your hair. Skimming his hand over and carefully tangling in your curls. "It’s okay if you do," you said, clearing your throat. Your face felt tight, sticky with dried tears. "It’s okay if you regret it. Me."

Jungwon went still. For a second he just looked at you, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his brows drew together. "Regret you?" he repeated quietly.

Your gaze dropped to your hands. "Well…yeah." Your voice shrank a little. "You lost everything because of me."

A small breath left him—half disbelief, half something softer. "That’s not what happened."

You shook your head, stubborn even through the exhaustion. "It is."

He shifted slightly on the couch so he was facing you more fully now.

When you didn’t look up, his hand moved from your hair to your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. "I didn’t lose everything. The investigation is still ongoing and once they realize that I’m innocent and it didn’t go any further than me just providing sanctuary for you—then I’m still gonna be out of here anyway."

"No—out? Why—"

"It’s nothing for me to get another position," he said gently, shaking his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "My reputation would be cleared. I have a PhD. I could go anywhere. Do anything." His hand slipped from your chin to your cheek, cupping it lightly. "Research. Teaching somewhere else. Maybe even traveling."

The pad of his thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone, wiping away the dampness there. "No rules," he murmured, eyes wide with hope.

"What about me?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Jungwon’s thumb paused against your cheek. For a moment he didn’t answer. His eyes searched your face, like he was trying to figure out whether you realized what you’d just asked. "What about you?" he echoed softly.

Your stomach twisted. "If you leave," you said quietly, "then…that’s it, right?"

The room felt smaller somehow. Jungwon exhaled slowly through his nose. "No," he said after a moment.

Your eyes lifted to his again.

"It doesn’t have to be." His thumb resumed its slow, absentminded movement against your cheek, brushing away the last traces of tears. "I’m not your professor anymore," he reminded you gently. "Which means there aren’t any rules about where you and I stand."

Your heart gave a small, startled thump.

"I don’t expect anything from you," he added quickly. "Especially not right now. You’ve been through enough today." His hand finally dropped from your cheek, resting loosely on the couch between you.

"But if you’re asking whether I’d disappear from your life…" A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Just make sure you have your passport, okay?"

For the first time today, a small—extremely minute—hint of sunshine appeared over your cloudy mind. A sense of warmth lit up in your stomach now that your vision started to clear. You no longer saw blue and gray. 

Letting out a small laugh, "okay." 

"Okay?" he repeated, a little amused. His grin widened just slightly, dimples finally showing again as he leaned back into the couch. "That’s a pretty big commitment," he teased gently. "You didn’t even ask where we’d go."

You sniffled, wiping under your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. "Anywhere," you murmured. "I’d go anywhere."

Jungwon’s smile faltered a bit, his spine straightening as he perceived you. As if he could see the cloud above you lifting. "Can I hug you?" The question came out quieter than he probably intended.

For a second you just looked at him, like the idea hadn’t even crossed your mind until he said it out loud. Then you nodded. "Of course."

It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t hesitate. You just leaned toward him.

Jungwon opened his arms immediately, pulling you into him as gently as if you might break. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, curls brushing his jaw as his arms wrapped around your back.

He held you carefully at first. Then a little tighter.

Your shoulders shook once as the last of the day’s tension finally slipped out of you, but it wasn’t the kind of crying from earlier. It was quieter. Softer.

Jungwon’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, steady and warm. "We're gonna be okay," he murmured into your hair. "Everything will work itself out."

For a while neither of you said anything.

The office was still half empty. The cardboard box still sat on the desk. The future was still uncertain. But sitting there on the couch, wrapped up in each other, the world felt a little less like it was falling apart.

—

Every step you took down the hall and to the elevator felt like there were thirty pound weights on your ankles. Leaving that office felt like leaving behind a piece of your heart and you didn’t know what you’d do for the next weeks knowing that you couldn’t go back there. Regardless, looking Jungwon in the eye, seeing him reassure you despite how much even being in association with him screwed him over—you couldn’t help but feel a sense of indebtedness. On paper, yes, he should’ve known better. Yes, he should’ve ensured—as a professional that there were boundaries set in place. But when boundaries become blurry, you never know the line until you cross it. 

It wasn’t like you guys had sex. Kissed. Any of it.  But you couldn’t lie and say that there wasn’t intimacy. Talking about your interests. From the most surface level things to deep childhood lore.  Leaving you alone in his space, trusting you alone in his sanctuary. Letting you eat his snacks, touch his books and read them, nap on his couch. Spending hours talking about everything and nothing. 

It wasn’t romance. Not technically. But it also wasn’t nothing.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding. You stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor as the doors shut again with a soft thud. Your reflection stared back at you from the metal panels—eyes still puffy, curls slightly frizzed from where Jungwon’s fingers had been combing through them.

Your chest tightened again. Leaving that office felt wrong. Like abandoning something warm in the middle of winter. The elevator jerked softly as it reached the bottom floor.

Ding.

The doors slid open as cool air rushed in from the lobby as you stepped out, your mind still tangled in everything Jungwon had said. You pushed through the front doors to step outside and immediately stopped.

Riki was leaning against the metal railing at the bottom of the steps. Like he’d been there for a while. His eyes lifted the second the doors shut behind you. A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Wow," he said lazily.

His gaze dragged over your face—your swollen eyes, your flushed cheeks. "Looks like someone had a really productive meeting." Slowly, that hurt veered further along the spectrum of anger. But you were tired, exhausted. Worn down and ready to hit the transfer portal.

Seeing Riki wasn’t just bothersome anymore. Nor was it just inconveniencing. To put it simply, seeing him was like seeing a silhouette with flames around it. 

Your jaw tightened. For a moment you just stood there at the top of the steps, staring down at him.

Riki didn’t move. Didn’t even straighten up from where he leaned against the railing. He just watched you the same way someone watches a show they’ve already seen before. Waiting for their favorite part.

You descended the steps slowly. Each one felt deliberate. Heavy; and by the time you reached the bottom, you stopped a few feet away from him. Up close, the smugness in his expression was even worse. "What did you do?"

Riki tilts his head, almost amused. "That’s a pretty loaded question. I do a lot of things."

"What did you do to Dr. Yang?" You say slowly, each word dripping with venom.

"You’re so stupid." He shook his head, a repulsive smirk still insisting. "Thinking that he could ever actually care. Or give a fuck about you."

Your chest tightened. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise to your face. "Stop—"

"I'm not done."

Not a snap nor a threat. Just a fact, delivered the way you deliver something and finally decided to put it down. "I didn’t want this," Riki said. "Any of it. I actually liked him." His jaw shifted. "But I like you more."

"Don't—"

"You were going to get hurt." Still calm and speaking as if he was fully rational. "By him or someone else eventually. Someone was going to come along and see how easy you are to hold and just—" he exhaled through his nose, "—take advantage of that."

"So you did it first," you said. Your voice came out quieter than you wanted it to.

Something moved across his face. Something as simple as recognition. "Yeah," he said simply. "I did."

You laughed, and it came out broken. "You think that makes it okay."

"No." He said it without hesitation. "I think it makes you mine."

And there it was. The thing underneath the thing. Not an apology. Not a justification. Just ownership, plain and honest and completely terrifying.

"You have been making my life miserable," you said, and your voice cracked down the middle of it. "Since the day we got here. You made me scared to get out of bed. You made me cry myself to sleep. You made me feel like I was—" you shook your head, pressing your lips together because your eyes were burning and you refused, you absolutely refused, "—like I was nothing. Like I would always be nothing."

Riki looked at you. Just looked at you. "I know," he said quietly. And that was worse than any excuse he could've made.

"You don't get to just—" you started.

"You reorganize your pens when you’re anxious." His voice was different now. Lower. Almost careful, like he was handling something fragile. "Smallest to largest. Rainbow order. You do it without realizing." His eyes stayed on yours. "I’ve watched you do it a hundred times."

Your mouth closed.

"You eat the same thing when you’re stressed. You go to the quietest corner of the library when you need to think, not the closest one." Something shifted in his expression—so briefly, so terribly briefly—that it almost looked like tenderness. "Banana walnut. Not because it's your favorite. Because it's the one thing that tastes the same everywhere."

The world went very still. Because he was right. You'd never told anyone that. You'd never even said it out loud.

And for one second—just one—you saw him. Not the smirk or the cruelty or the years of damage he’d carved into you without apology. Just a boy who had been paying attention. Quietly, desperately, completely. A boy who knows you in a particular way you can only know someone you've been watching from a distance for far too long.

The boy who could have just been your friend.

It lasted exactly one second.

"I wanted to know everything," he said. And just like that the tenderness was gone, replaced by something rawer and more honest and so much worse. "I’m still dying to. Every single thing about you." His eyes darkened. "And I ruined it. I know I ruined it." A short, humorless breath. "But I couldn't just watch you walk around this campus like you were invisible and do nothing."

"So you made me scared of my own shadow." you whispered. "You made me afraid of you instead."

"I made you feel me." His voice dropped. "There's a difference."

"There isn't—"

"You felt everything." He stepped closer and you stepped back and the back of your heel caught the edge of the curb and you caught yourself and he watched all of it and kept coming anyway. "Every single day. Even now, you’re alive with it." His eyes burned into yours. "You’re not sleepwalking anymore."

"Don't come near me," you choked out, hand flying up between you. "I swear to God, don't you dare come near me."

He stopped.

Hands at his sides. Chest rising and falling. Eyes completely steady. "I love you," he said.

Not whispered. Not performed. Not offered with trembling hands or a breaking voice or any of the softness that would've made it easier to dismiss.

Just said. The way you say something you stopped needing anyone to validate a long time ago. And the worst part—the part that would keep you up at night long after all of this was over—was the ghost of that one second. The boy with the muffin and the quiet observations and the dying need to know more.

That boy loved you too. And he was the same person.

That was the thing you couldn't untangle. That was the thing that made your eyes sting and your hands shake and your heart do something awful and complicated in your chest. You understood him. God help you, for just one second, you understood him completely.

"I could never love you," you said. And you meant it entirely. And it cost you something anyway.

His jaw flexed once, fingers curling tighter at his sides until the knuckles blanched white. The street light caught the sheen in his eyes, but he blinked it away quickly, like even that small crack in his composure irritated him. "Fine. Be that way."

Riki shakes his head, brushing past you but stopping just short of being by your side. "But when he leaves…and he will," he said quietly.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His shoulder brushed the air beside yours as he stopped just short of passing you completely. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, but not touching. "When he leaves," he continued, voice low and steady, "don’t pretend you didn’t know it was coming."

Your chest tightened. "He’s not leaving me," you snapped, even though the words sounded thinner than you wanted them to.

Riki gave a short, humorless laugh. "He’s leaving the entire campus."

"That’s not the same thing."

"It’s exactly the same thing."

Now he turned his head slightly, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. "You think he’s going to build his life around you?" he asked. He continued. "You think when his reputation clears he’s going to stay here for the girl who got tangled up in the scandal that almost destroyed him?"

Your throat tightened. "He said—"

"He said a lot of things, didn’t he?" Riki cut in softly. His gaze flicked up toward Jungwon’s office window again.

"Men say a lot when the moment is right," he murmured. "Especially when someone’s crying in front of them. Believe me, I’d know."

Your stomach twisted. "Shut up." But your voice didn’t have much strength behind it anymore.

Riki watched you for a second longer. But right as he passed your shoulder, he leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.

"And when he’s gone," he said, "when the office is empty and he’s halfway across the world chasing the next thing…"

Your breath caught.

"…you’ll finally understand what I’ve been trying to tell you."

He straightened again and kept walking down the pathway. "You don’t belong in someone’s temporary life." His footsteps echoed against the concrete as he moved farther away. "You belong with someone who refuses to leave.”

—

The parking lot was almost empty by the time he stepped outside.

Most of the faculty had already gone home, the last bands of orange daylight long gone behind the buildings. The lamps along the lot buzzed faintly overhead, casting long pale cones of light across the asphalt. Jungwon walked slowly, the cardboard box balanced against his hip. The edges of the flaps had started to soften where his fingers had been gripping them all afternoon. Inside were the small things he hadn’t bothered leaving behind in the office—books he’d bought with his own money, a framed photo of his parents from a few years ago, a notebook full of half-finished research ideas.

His car sat alone near the far end of the row.

For a moment he just stood there, looking at it.

The silence of the campus at night felt different now. Emptier. Like something had already ended even though the official words hadn’t been spoken yet.

He popped the trunk. The lid lifted with a quiet metallic click.

Jungwon set the box down carefully inside, adjusting it so it wouldn’t slide when he drove. One of the books tipped sideways and he righted it automatically, pressing it back into place.

When he lowered the trunk again, the sound echoed softly through the lot. He exhaled, fiddling with the keyfob to unlock the driver’s seat.

Footsteps.

Fast. Thumping rapidly into the concrete.

Before his brain could even register the direction, a hand seized the front of his coat and slammed him backward against the car.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

Metal rang sharply behind his shoulders as Jungwon’s head snapped slightly to the side before he steadied himself, one hand instinctively coming up against the hood to keep his balance.

Riki’s grip tightened in his jacket, twisting his fist as he gathered his collar. "So. You figured it out. Congratulations."

For a second he said nothing. No struggle. No attempt to shove Riki off him.

He just huffed. Then, quietly: "I didn’t have to figure anything out."

Riki’s mouth twitched. "Oh?" His grip twisted tighter in the fabric of Jungwon’s coat. "So you’re saying you always knew?"

Jungwon didn’t answer right away. The parking lot lights flickered overhead, pale against the dark.

Finally—

"Yes."

That seemed to take a little wind out of Riki’s sails. His brows pulled together, like he’d expected anger. Or accusations. Something louder. But he could feel it. He could if he just kept pushing. "You’re not even going to ask why?" Riki said.

Jungwon studied him for a moment.

Up close, Riki looked worse than he had any other time he’d seen him—eyes bright in a way that didn’t look like excitement so much as exhaustion stretched too tight. "I’ve gotten all the information that I needed." The elder’s eyes veered off, refusing to look the manic person before him in the eye. Jungwon swipes the younger’s hand off of him. "Let me make something clear. I am an adult. I don’t play kid games, Mr. Nishimura."

Riki’s hand hung in the air for a second after Jungwon brushed it off. Then a slow smile crept onto his face. "There’s nothing kid-like about me."

Jungwon’s gaze slid back to him slowly. For a moment he didn’t speak, like he was deciding whether the comment deserved a response at all. Then his eyes drifted down Riki’s rumpled jacket, the tight set of his shoulders, the barely-contained agitation vibrating through him. "I’m aware," Jungwon said evenly. He reached up, smoothing the crease Riki had left in his collar. "There’s nothing childish about impulsivity, entitlement, or obsession. Adults display those traits every day."

Riki’s smile sharpened. "You’re talking about yourself now?"

Jungwon gave a faint breath through his nose that almost resembled a laugh. "No." His voice stayed calm, controlled. "I’m talking about you."

That landed squarely. Riki’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.

Jungwon continued like he was explaining something in a lecture hall. "As if proximity is intimacy?" His eyes lifted, finally meeting Riki’s again. “Me being there for her doesn’t mean that anything transpired.”

Riki scoffed, but there was an edge to it now. "You think you’re better than me or something?"

Jungwon tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing in confusion.

"See?" Riki shrugs, gesturing to him. "This is exactly it. You pride yourself on being so articulate. A-and well read and knowledgeable but you don’t know the first thing about her—"

"You don’t know the first thing about me." Jungwon says sharply, his voice not daring to touch a higher decibel. 

"But I know that you aren’t as aware as you think." Riki’s face twisted in disgust. "There was no intimacy, are you serious?"

Jungwon’s eyes hardened slightly.

Riki let out a humorless laugh, pacing once in front of the car before turning back to him again. "Oh, right," he said, nodding slowly. "You’re going to pretend it was—what? Academic mentorship? Professional concern?" His hands spread in a mocking gesture. "You’re not any better than me. You’re just nice to her."

Jungwon didn’t move.

"You let her cry to you," Riki continued. "Let her nap on your couch like it was her living room."

His eyes burned now, sharp and restless. "You thought about her when she wasn’t around. Huh? Probably thought about how she tasted."

Jungwon’s jaw shifted slightly. "Careful," he said quietly.

Riki kept on. "Didn’t open the windows after she left your office. Wanting her scent to linger in the room."

The elder’s brows furrowed at the extremity. He wasn't this obsessive.

"Her laugh rang like a song that’s been stuck in your head for hours. Days." He pushed. "That look in her eye when she gets so excited about whatever she’s rambling about just makes you feel so…complete. Whole." Riki’s eyes darkened. "Yeah well I never got to look her in the eye. I always had to experience it through the lens of someone else!" His hand comes down on the top of Jungwon’s sedan.

The sound of his palm against the metal rang out and then dissolved into the quiet of the lot. Jungwon didn’t flinch.

"And you just—what? See I knew you were gonna be a problem. Thinking you could step to me like some knight in shining armor—well let me tell you something, Professor, she doesn’t need saving. She needs someone who’s gonna stay."

The elder man’s head tilted though his voice remained calm and gentle. "Why?"

Riki blinked. "What?"

"Why does she need someone who stays?" Jungwon’s voice was the same temperature it always was. Like he had nowhere else to be. "Why is that the thing you keep coming back to?"

"Because—" Riki started, then stopped.

The lot hummed quietly around them.

"Because everyone leaves her," he said finally. Quieter. Like the anger had found a hole somewhere and started draining out of it. "Everyone always has. No friends after high school, terrible relationship with her family. And she acts like it doesn’t bother her but it does. It—" He exhaled hard through his nose. "She puts up with it because she thinks that's just how it goes for her."

Jungwon said nothing.

"And you’re just gonna be another one," Riki continued, but the certainty in it had gone soft at the edges. "Another person that made her feel like she mattered and then disappeared."

"Maybe," Jungwon said again. Simply.

Riki’s eyes snapped up. "That doesn’t bother you?"

"It bothers me deeply." He held Riki's gaze. "Which is why I’m not disappearing."

Riki stared at him. Looking away and clenching his fists in a feeble attempt at masking his tornado of emotions. 

"So…what’s making you treat her this way? Since you seem to care so much, why hinder her from making friends? Why try to steal any and every chance of opportunity from beneath her?"

Riki’s laugh came out thin and hollow. "I don’t—that’s not what I was doing."

Jungwon just waited, leaning against the car. And that was just the thing about him that Riki hated. He never filled silences with noise. Simply gave you all the space in the world and let you meet him where he was. 

But the silence was insisting. Insisting on letting Riki marinate in his own wrongdoings. Not mistakes. Wrongdoings.

"I was…" He shakes his head slowly, in partial disbelief. "I loved her the best way I knew how." Letting his hands down by his sides in defeat. "Fuck…" He covered his eyes with his hands as he inhaled sharply. "I tried. I really…I loved her the best way I—" Riki’s breath came out uneven, shoulders curling forward like his body was trying to protect something it had already lost. His hands hung at his sides, useless. Eyes wet and jaw tight and nowhere to put any of it.

Jungwon looked at him for a long moment. Taking in the state of him not from the perspective of a student—a human being rather. Head hung, fists clenched as the younger man stood there with what seemed to be the world on his shoulders. Like his brain was cut right in half and both sides were processing different things. Different emotions. 

Shame, embarrassment, especially when you felt you were at a point of no return. Riki knew now more than ever that it was over. His time, his reign over your heart and mind was now over. No more. The empire has collapsed.

Jungwon shook his head, pitying him but it wasn’t like he’d let Riki know that. He was just as prideful as the next man. Fragile; and even then, finally coming to a realization. So he closed the distance and put his arms around him.

It wasn’t soft or comforting in any way. A hand pressed firmly between Riki’s shoulder blades. Reminding him to stay in his body. Even if it felt like it was all over. Riki went rigid for a half second, every instinct in him rearing up against it.

But then something just...gave. His forehead dropped to Jungwon’s shoulder and he exhaled—this long, wrecked, shuddering thing that had probably been living in his chest for years. His fingers curled into the fabric of the older man’s coat and he didn’t say anything because there was nothing left to say.

Jungwon didn’t say anything either. Just held him. One hand steady on his back, the other still at his shoulder. It lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Then Jungwon stepped back. Straightened his coat. Looked at Riki the same way he always looked at him—clear, unhurried, without judgment. Got in the car and drove away.

Riki stood there in the empty lot for a long time after the tail lights disappeared. The cold had gotten sharper without him noticing. His face felt tight and his chest felt scraped out and somewhere across campus you were probably in your dorm not thinking about him at all.

He put his hands in his pockets. Turning around to start walking. Unsure where, just…toward something. Somewhere.

— Months later —

May always smelled like cut grass and sunscreen and the particular anxiety of people who had procrastinated and waited until the last minute to move with urgency to pack their shit and get out of the dorms.

The hallway was chaotic. Cardboard boxes stacked against walls, someone’s entire closet spilled out onto the floor three doors down, the elevator perpetually occupied by carts piled so high you couldn’t see the person pushing them.

You sat cross-legged on your bare mattress and looked at your room.

It looked nothing like yours anymore. The fairy lights down. The pictures off the corkboard, leaving little ghost-holes where the thumbtacks had been. Your rainbow gel pens in a ziplock bag inside a box instead of lined up by the window where they belonged. It looked like a room that was ready to forget you.

You reached for your phone.

The texts had been sparse. Purposeful. You’d send him a question about the paper you were finishing for his replacement, something academic and safe, and he’d answer it and then ask how you were holding up and you’d say fine and mean mostly and he seemed to understand the difference.

But his last message, sent three days ago, was still sitting unanswered at the bottom of the thread.

Jungwon: Cleared officially. As of this morning.

And then, after a few minutes:

Thought you should know.

You’d read it approximately forty times. Then typed now, sitting on your bare mattress surrounded by your boxed-up life:

You: I know this is late. I’m really glad.

You stared at it. Then added:

I'm moving out today.

Sent it before you could think too hard about why you wanted him to know that.

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Jungwon: Where are you going for the summer?

You smiled despite yourself. Small and private, just for the empty room.

You: Home. Unfortunately.

Jungwon: How unfortunate are we talking…

You: On a scale of one to ten. Probably an eight.

Jungwon: That bad?

You: My mom will ask me within the first hour if I’ve been eating enough. And my dad will ask me within the first day what my plan is and I have neither an appetite nor a plan so…

A longer pause this time. You could almost feel him smiling somewhere.

Jungwon: I might be in the city. Early June so…About two weeks from now.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen.

You: Which city?

Jungwon: Whichever city you’re in.

You set the phone down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a second. The same water stain you’d been looking at for months, shaped vaguely like a misshapen star.

Outside in the hallway someone dropped something heavy and swore loudly and someone else laughed.

Then you picked the phone back up.

You: Good to know. Let me know, of course.

Jungwon: I will.

You locked your phone and sat there for a moment in the quiet of your almost-empty room. No Riki appearing in doorways. No dread pooling in your stomach at the sound of footsteps you recognized. Just May pouring through the window and the distant sound of campus slowly exhaling.

But the envelope was plain. Just your name on the front in his handwriting, which you recognized immediately because it was annoyingly neat for someone who acted like the world’s rules didn’t apply to him.

You stood in your doorway for a second just looking at it.

Then you picked it up, went inside, and sat down atop your desk—ignoring the chair and just sitting on the wooden surface itself. Then opened it to see a solid three pages:

I don’t know how many times I started this. Enough that I have a small graveyard of crumpled paper in my trash can and my roommate thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.

I’m not going to open with an excuse. I had a lot of them prepared and I threw those drafts away too because you deserve better than my reasons. You’ve been listening to my reasons for three years and they never added up to anything good so I’m going to try something different.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the muffin. I know that sounds small but I think about it more than I should—the way you looked when I took it back. Like you’d expected it. Like you were already braced for it. And I did that. I contributed to your lack of trust in people and I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the internship. I didn’t actually want it. I think you knew that. I just couldn’t stand the idea of you having something I didn’t give you.

I’m sorry for the report. That one I’ll carry for a long time. He’s a good person and he didn’t deserve it and neither did you and I did it anyway because I was scared and jealous and I told myself it was protection when really it was just—me. Being exactly what I always accused everyone else of being.

I’m sorry for bullying you. Not the watered down version of that word—I mean I was cruel to you consistently and on purpose and I knew exactly what I was doing every time. I made your life harder than it already was and I did it because I could and that’s the truth of it.

I saw you and was done for. I need you to know that even if it doesn’t mean anything now. On the first day of orientation you were sitting in the third row and you had your pens lined up on the desk and you were so focused and so completely unbothered by the fact that no one was talking to you and I thought—she’s going to be someone. She already is.

And then I spent three years making sure you doubted that.

I think I loved you the best way I knew how and my best was genuinely terrible and that’s not your problem to carry, it’s mine. 

But if it gives you any closure, as part of my disciplinary action—I’m on formal academic probation. I’ve been suspended from all of my leadership roles. And even better for the world (and myself, one may think) I was mandated to attend counseling. Though I’m in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy now.

I may not have a reasonable explanation for my past behavior. But I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and Depression. So yes, there is a reason. A why and how. But I'm sorry you had to suffer at the hands of that.

I put in for a transfer. I leave after the end of my probation which is in December—the end of first semester. And even if I see you, I wouldn’t approach you. Not because I don’t want to but I just don’t think I earned the right. I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel guilty or reach out or anything like that. I just thought you should know that I’m not going to be something you have to navigate anymore. You get to have this campus back. You always should have. It was always your world and however much I envy anyone that gets to be in it—you should have the best one. The happiest one.

I hope you get the internship. I hope you get everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything you see when you close your eyes.

I hope he’s good to you. He will be. I think that’s what made me the angriest—knowing that he actually would be.

You don’t have to forgive me. I’m not asking you to. I just needed you to know that I know. All of it. I know exactly what I did. But I hope that there can be a day where we run into each other by chance ten years from now and can chat over a coffee. About any and everything. I’ll hold onto that hope tightly in the meantime.

Happy Holidays, Happy Birthday, Happy Halloween, Congraduations, Congratulations on the engagement, and everything else for your future. Hopefully I’ll be lucky enough to say ‘I knew her when…’

Love,

— Riki

— Two weeks later —

You walked down the street with a heavy heart. But another part of you felt a sense of freedom. A lightness that you haven’t been able to taste in a very long time. Everything felt different. Waking up and looking in the mirror wasn’t as hard as it was. Eating a piece of cake didn’t make you feel guilty anymore. You actually dared to do your makeup this morning. Even though those worries didn’t just magically disappear—you still ended up crying when you saw the letter R—you didn’t feel bad for existing anymore like you used to.

The last you heard of Riki was when that letter was slid under your door. In some way, you wondered who delivered it. Maybe one of his friends. Maybe him. And even that hurts knowing that he wasn’t man enough to look you in the eye. But after everything, you took it for what it was. Grateful for the closure that he could give you anyway. So you moved on. At least as best as you could, that is.

Jungwon and you have been in constant communication, though. From sporadic texts, to late night calls when he made it home after a long day. Since leaving your university, Jungwon’s signed on to be an independent researcher. Loosely affiliated with other universities enough to gain resources such as funding and whatnot. The person who gets commissioned to write books, contribute to academic journals, speak at conferences internationally. But lately, he’s been at his home base before he goes off to whatever else he wants to do. You’re not sure—by the time you both speak, you like to focus on the moment.

But today, you both have arranged to meet at a cafe that you enjoy going to every now and then. It’s a decently popular spot and you don’t expect him to know about it. It’s not like he knows anything about your hometown. You both agreed to meet at one PM—you open the door to the cafe, letting the little bell on the door jingle as it opens and closes. It was about twenty minutes until your coordinated time but you were nothing if not punctual. Or at least you tried to be for him. Like always, you scanned the place to see if any spots were open. Fortunately, there was a perfect two-seater right in the corner of the cafe. Quiet, a bit dark though. There was nothing there but a small painting that the owners placed just for the sake of filling the space. Then there was another space, another two-seater. Right in front of the windows. Both metal seats glinted and reflected off the glass. A small pot of daffodils hung over the center of the table from a chain that was connected to the ceiling. You tilted your head with a slight smile—a warm feeling rose in your chest as you carefully approached the table. Unsure of what seat to take, you just stare for a moment before you just sit at any one. Maybe Jungwon will remind you of which seat he wanted when he got here.

For a while, you debate ordering anything just yet. Wanting to revel in how fun it’d be to stand in line with him. Chatting as you both browsed the menu knowing that you’d probably just order the same thing you’d order at any other cafe that you’ve been to. The door jingles as it opens suddenly, drawing you out of the fantasy. Subconsciously, you sit up—fixing yourself and your hair as you are about to turn around. But before you could, pale hands cover your eyes—ultimately submerging your world in darkness.

“Guess who?” They sing softly, Your smile gave you away before you could even pretend to think about it.

“Took you long enough,” you said.

His hands dropped from your eyes and then he was there–sliding into the seat across from you like he’d been doing it for years, unwinding a scarf from around his neck even though it was the tail end of spring and entirely too warm for a scarf. Very him, somehow. He looked good. That was the first thought, arriving before you could be polite about it. Rested in a way he hadn’t looked the last time you’d seen him, which had been the office, which had been the worst day the both of you shared. His glasses were slightly different—new frames, a little thinner. His sweater was cream colored and soft looking and he had the sleeves pushed up already like he was ready to settle in. “You’re early,” he said.

“I love punctuality, Dr. Yang. You know this.” You bite your lip, trying to suppress a small laugh. 

He smiled at that—the real one, dimples and everything. “Well maybe be late, you know? I wanted to be here first.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, picking up the little menu card from the center of the table like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Wanted to see you walk in first. It’s what I’m used to.” The warm feeling in your chest expanded so suddenly you had to look down at the table for a second just to collect yourself.

The daffodils hung gently overhead, swaying from some draft you couldn’t locate.

“So,” he said, setting the menu down and folding his hands. Looking at you the same way he always had—like you were the most interesting thing in whatever room you both happened to be in. “How does it feel? How do you feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“Being done.” He tilted his head. “Just…turning over a new leaf.”

You thought about the almost-empty room. The letter in your nightstand drawer. The mirror that had gotten a little easier to look into. “Weird,” you said honestly. “Good-weird, though.”

He nodded slowly. “Good-weird is underrated.” The door jingled behind you somewhere. The espresso machine hissed. Outside the window the street moved at its usual indifferent pace, completely unbothered by the fact that something inside you had quietly, finally, come to rest.

“You look different,” Jungwon said. Not analyzing, just noticing.

“Different how?” For a moment, you forgot you even had makeup on. Which was something you almost never did.

He considered you for a moment, chin tilting slightly. “Just…” For once Jungwon searches for words, which for someone like him was almost a rare occurrence. “Beautiful.” He says it, blurting it out and exhaling over it like the elephant was finally coming off of his chest. Like he was allowed to breathe now. “You look so beautiful. You always have. But…there’s an equanimity. Repose—about you now. And I’m grateful—lucky—to see it.”

Your eyes widened slightly as your hand rose to your chest. Rubbing your chest over your flowy, linen shirt where your heart was. “Uh–I…thank you, Jungwon.”

He smiled. Reached over and straightened the small pot of daffodils that had drifted slightly off center. “Good,” he said simply. “Now. Tell me what’s good here. I drove forty minutes and I refuse to order the wrong thing.”

—

The both of you were buzzing. 

Spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in the same seats. Behinds aching as you both constantly adjust in the stiff, metal seats. Stomachs bloated and aching slightly from copious caffeine consumption. But neither of you cared. Neither of you could help but reach over the table as you held yourself as if either of you laughed—then your guts would spill out. Time doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore because whatever it is, you have all of it with him. The cafe soon closes, the employees quietly starting to do inventory and wiping tables. And you’re not dense, you both made your way out. Leaving a hefty tip for them in the jar by the register. And before the both of you knew it, you ended up on a bridge at one of the local parks. Nothing too far nor close to his car but it wasn’t like that was on either of your minds. Still, the golden hour was slowly tipping to blue. The water beneath your feet was neither loud or quiet. 

You both find a worn, wooden bench to sit on. Though surprisingly enough, it didn’t groan under both of your combined weight. So that was clearly a great sign. The bench had seen more than it should’ve but it wasn’t one to complain. The both of you stare ahead. Letting the silence build between the both of you but it wasn’t awkward. It felt earned more than anything. Finally you were looking at something outside of yourself without feeling the burden of doubt. Even though you enjoyed his company, it kills you to not hear his voice now. Him being this close to you makes you want him in any way. The sole hit of dopamine that you get when he says your name or laughs at one of your terrible jokes is enough to make you want this forever. Always.

You muster the courage to look to your left, only slightly do you turn your head to see him fully turned to you. Legs crossed over the other and hands folded over his stomach. And the moment your eyes meet, the two of you burst into a small fit of laughter. Jungwon threw his head back as his laugh was now more obnoxious than when he was in the cafe. Which you admired, you loved his mindfulness. How he minded everywhere he was and that he knew when to turn it on and off.

You’re still laughing but it’s going to fade into something softer any second now. And you’re positively anticipating it. That moment when the laughter dies down and leaves something unguarded in its place. So when it does, you’re fully turned to him with your back straightened—almost at attention—until you catch yourself. You didn’t need to perform or pretend. So you take a second to just…sink into the bench. Jungwon’s the first to speak. “When do you have to be home?” He asks softly, now the ebb and flow of the water below crashing a bit—but it was white noise. His voice was louder than anything you’ve ever heard. At the front of your mind.

“Uh…” You shrug, twisting your bracelet. “I don’t have to be anywhere. It’s not like I have a curfew. I am a grown woman, fun fact.” He reaches over, lightly pushing your shoulder. “Hush.” He laughs again. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Your brows furrowed as you playfully swatted him. “Clarify for me, please.”

“I mean…” He brings his arm to rest on the back of the bench. “I’m coming through on my promise.”

Your hand stills on your bracelet. You’d thought about this moment more than you’d ever admit to anyone including yourself. Lying in your almost empty dorm room, then later in your childhood bed staring at the same ceiling you'd stared at for eighteen years before you left. Turning his words over in the dark like something you weren't sure was real.

Just make sure you have your passport, okay?

You’d told yourself it was just something people say. Something kind and warm that exists only in the moment it’s spoken and dissolves after. Like steam. Like the way people say we should catch up and never mean it. But here he is.

“Which promise?” you ask quietly. Not because you don’t know. But because you need to hear him say it.

Jungwon looks at you for a moment. That same unhurried way he looks at everything—like he has nowhere else to be and intends to stay exactly where he is. “Well, more like I need you to come through on yours.” He smiles softly, then it widens by the second.

And the blue hour settles around you both. And the water does whatever it wants below. And you think—oh. It was always going to be this. So you stop twisting the bracelet. And you lean into the arm behind you. “What did I say?” Again, you knew. You just wanted to hear him say it. “That you’d go anywhere.” His smile softens a bit. The hand by your shoulder, brushing the exposed skin where the sleeve ended. Sending jolts through your skin. You didn’t realize how you longed for touch. Affection of any kind. Platonic, familial, romantic. Even then, you didn’t realize until now that one of those boxes was being checked. “With me.” “Where’s anywhere?” You clear your throat, gulping down literally nothing. You wanted to look down and see his hand brush against your warm skin—just to make sure that it was real. But he may think that you didn’t enjoy it. You were still unfamiliar with these dynamics. Do you acknowledge it or not? 

“Brazil.” He says.

The word sits between you both for a moment. Just breathing there.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you. Has been, you realize. Probably since before you turned. The hand on your shoulder isn’t moving anymore—just resting there, warm and certain against your skin like it belongs and is only now admitting it. So you turn toward him fully. And the last of the golden hour catches the new frames of his glasses and the particular way he’s looking at you like you are the most inevitable thing that has ever happened to him. And you bring your hand up. It finds his jaw before you’ve finished deciding to do it. Your thumb barely grazes the place where his dimple lives. You feel him exhale—slow and quiet—and underneath your palm he isn’t quite as controlled as usual. His eyes drop to your mouth. Just once; and that’s enough for you to close the distance. It’s soft at first. Just the reality of it. And then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—finding your face and holding you there like you are something worth holding carefully. His other hand finds your waist and draws you in. Not urgent. Just yes. You kiss him like you have nowhere else to be. Because you don't.

When you pull back you don’t go far. His forehead finds yours. Eyes still closed. Breath slightly uneven which does something to you that you’ll think about later. 

Then—

“So that’s a yes?” Quieter than usual. And when you open your eyes he’s already smiling. Dimples and everything. Like he can’t help it.

You laugh softly. “Ten times, yes.”

He takes your hand from his jaw and holds it instead. Pressing a kiss to your palm before pulling you into the warmth of his chest. And you both sit there above the water saying nothing at all. 

The bench holds.

— epilogue

The sun had been up for hours but you’d only been awake for twenty minutes and already you’d decided this was the best decision you’d ever made.

The kind of heat that didn’t ask anything of you. Just settled over your skin like permission. The ocean was doing what oceans do—completely indifferent and endlessly moving and so blue it almost didn’t look real.

You shifted on the beach chair and didn’t pull at your swimsuit. Didn’t even think about pulling at it. That was new.

You’d bought it a week before the trip in a fitting room under fluorescent lights that were nobody’s friend and you’d stood there for a long time just looking at yourself. Waiting for the familiar voice that always showed up in those moments—the one that catalogued everything, measured everything, found everything wanting. But most importantly, reminded you that you were beautiful even in a trash bag. And now here you are. Somewhere warm and far from home with salt drying on your shoulders and your hair doing whatever it wanted because you’d stopped fighting it two days ago.

You turned your head. Jungwon was exactly where he’d been when you dozed off—stretched out on the chair beside yours, laptop balanced on a little lap desk, glasses on, expression set to that particular focused calm that meant he was either deep in thought or had been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes. 

"You’re supposed to be on vacation," you said.

He didn’t look up immediately. "I am on vacation. But also not—technically."

"You have your laptop."

"I have my laptop on vacation." He turned a page of something beside him without looking at it. "It’s called balance."

You laughed, the sound coming out easy and unhurried, swallowed up by the ocean breeze. He looked over then. Just briefly, over the rim of his glasses. Something in his expression shifted—soft and unguarded in that way he never tried to hide anymore. Like he’d given up pretending he wasn’t exactly as gone on you as he was. "I love seeing you happy," he said.

"I love that you love seeing me happy."

He held your gaze for a second like he was making sure. Then he closed the laptop and set it on the small table beside him. And stood up.

You tilted your face up as he stepped over to your chair, this man who had kept every quiet promise he’d ever made to you, who had shown up in late June on a Thursday and never left after that. Who had said no rules in a half empty office once while packing up his life and meant it in a way that turned out to be true.

He leaned down slowly. One hand braced on the back of your chair, the other coming up to cup your face like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.

The sun was warm on your shoulders. The ocean kept moving. He kissed you soft and unhurried, the way he did most things—like there was nowhere else to be. Like this had been decided a long time ago and he was simply glad they’d finally gotten here.

When he pulled back he didn’t go far. Just pressed small kisses to your cheek, then neck, and collarbone. Inhaling your sweet, salty scent before smiling once he looked you in the eye. Lightly pressing his nose to yours. And you thought about Riki’s letter sitting in your nightstand drawer back home. For the smallest unit of time possibly—like a nanosecond. About the happiest one. About coffee ten years from now and Happy Halloween and a small crumpled graveyard of false starts.

You hoped he was okay. You genuinely did. But laying here on a beach chair in Brazil, looking above. Seeing the sun cast a halo around the body of your angel—the man that saved you.

You knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Copyright: © zorange13. 2026. All rights reserved. Do not repost, copy, or distribute without permission.

Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”

You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”

“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.

With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”

“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”

He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”

Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.

Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.

All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.

“I missed you guys,” you said softly.

Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”

You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.

But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”

Leehan’s arms stiffened first.

Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.

You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”

Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”

“No shit. Where is he?”

Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.

“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”

Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”

Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.

You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.

“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”

Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”

Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.” 

Without looking at him, you nodded to the door. 

Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.

The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.

Halfway down the block, you tried again.

“So we’re really not talking about it?”

Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”

Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.

Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”

“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12. 

R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on. 

The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.

When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.

But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.

It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs. 

While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.

“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.

You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”

He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.

Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”

“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”

Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”

“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”

Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.

Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”

“That’s vague as hell.”

He tried again. “He told us something about you.”

You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”

Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”

Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright. 

It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.

Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”

“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”

Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”

You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?

“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”

You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”

“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.

“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.

“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.

Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.

“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.

Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”

But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.

By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.

“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”

The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.

“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”

Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.

The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.

A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.

“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”

“Focus,” Leehan hissed.

You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.

Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:

“Where is Riki?”

The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.

You didn’t even thank him.

You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.

Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”

Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.

“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”

As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.

“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”

Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”

One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”

You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”

The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”

“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”

The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.

With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”

“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”

“Don’t tell me to—”

“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.

You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”

“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”

“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”

Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”

You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”

That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.

Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”

With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”

You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”

His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—

Yeah. You knew that tone too.

So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.

Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.

He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!” 

“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”

“What?! Do what?”

 You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”

“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”

You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space. 

But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.

Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.

Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”

Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”

Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.

Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”

Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”

Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”

Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”

“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”

Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”

Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”

Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”

“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”

Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”

Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.

Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”

“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”

“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.

“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.

Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.

“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”

Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”

Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”

Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”

Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”

“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.

Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”

Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”

Riki winced. “…Yeah.”

Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”

Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”

“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”

Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.

Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”

“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.

“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”

Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”

Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”

Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”

Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”

“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”

“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.

“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”

Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”

Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”

Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.

Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”

A long beat.

Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.

“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out. 

Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”

Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”

“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”

Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”

Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”

Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”

“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”

“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.

Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.

Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”

Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”

Riki’s throat bobbed.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Shifted his weight.

Looked everywhere except at them.

Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.

Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.

A beat.

Then another.

“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.

“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”

—

The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.

All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.

Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.

Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.

Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.

But he was also the one who always noticed.

When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.

He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.

Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.

Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.

Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.

You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.

Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.

He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.

You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”

Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”

“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.

You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”

“You won’t.” 

“I absolutely will.” 

“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.

He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”

You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”

Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”

“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.

“I’m anemic.”

“No. I’m anemic.”

“Same difference.” 

“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”

Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.

He held on tighter.

You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.

“Why are you still here?” you hissed.

“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”

“They’re right.”

“—and you still won’t let me explain!”

You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.

Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”

You kept lowering it.

“Bro—” Down another inch.

“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.

He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”

“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”

“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”

You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.

He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”

“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”

He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”

You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it. 

He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”

The TV you had on only increased in volume.

Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”

You didn’t answer.

Cue the theme music swelling louder.

“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”

Silence.

Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”

You turned the TV up another two notches.

He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”

A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.

He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”

But he didn’t leave.

He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.

He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”

You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.

“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”

You whacked the window again with another pillow.

He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”

Another pillow hit the glass.

He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”

For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.

He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.

“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”

You froze behind the blinds.

He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.

“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”

You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.

He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”

A pause.

“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”

Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.

Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.

Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”

“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”

“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”

Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”

Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”

Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.

He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.

“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room. 

“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.

Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.

He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him. 

But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him. 

“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”

“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”

“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”

“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.

“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.

With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.

“…Did you seriously just—?”

“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”

“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”

He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”

You stared at him.

He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.

“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”

He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.

“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.

He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”

You blinked at him. “What, what?”

He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”

You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”

But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.

He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.

You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”

He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”

Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.

His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”

He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”

Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”

Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”

You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”

You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”

“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”

“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.

“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”

You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.

He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”

“Um…?”

“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”

“I’m not an object, Riki.”

“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”

Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.

Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”

You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.

Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”

“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”

Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”

“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”

“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”

“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”

He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.

“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”

Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”

You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”

“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”

Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.

“Riki, that’s not—”

“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”

You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”

His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”

“That is not the point—”

“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”

You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”

“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”

You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.

“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.

“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.

He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”

You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”

“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”

“What right there?!”

“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”

“I do not—”

“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”

Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”

“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”

You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”

“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.

You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:

“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”

You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.

His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”

That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.

Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.

Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.

“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”

You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”

“Yes?”

“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”

His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.

“…Huh?” he blinked.

You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”

Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”

“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”

He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.

“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”

Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”

“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”

Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”

“Are you trying to son me?” 

Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”

You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.” 

He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”

You smacked him again.

“HEY—”

“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”

He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”

“Riki, I am older than you.”

“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”

Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.

Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”

You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.

You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.

“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”

Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.

“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”

Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.

He just…took it.

The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place. 

His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”

But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.

He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.

And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.

“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.

His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.

“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.

You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.

If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.

He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”

Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow. 

“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.

You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”

Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.

He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”

You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”

“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”

You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.

He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”

“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”

His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.

His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”

You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”

His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.

“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”

Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”

Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”

“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”

“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”

You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”

His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”

You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.

He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”

Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.

“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”

“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”

His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”

You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”

Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.

“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”

His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.

“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”

Your throat bobbed.

“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.

For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.

Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”

His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”

— The next morning —

“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”

Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”

With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.

“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”

Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.

Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”

The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”

His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”

“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”

Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”

He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”

“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”

He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.

“Xiomara.”

Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”

Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”

“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.

From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”

“Mom.”

“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”

“Mom.”

“—maybe drive her to orientation—”

“Mom!”

Finally, she looked up.

“What?”

“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.

Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”

Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”

Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.

Leehan froze.

Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”