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─── 𖤐 命運／ red apples

JAYDA. #2🍎05 * ੈ𑁍.༘ fragments of things i never finished || pansexual & christian.

ⓘ requests OPEN but my mind is usually not .ᐟ about me + face claim tucked somewhere between drafts

⛧ fluff / angst / smaus

╰𖥔𓂃 fandom orbit CORTIS 𓋈 ENHYPEN ˚₊ BTS ˚₊ LNGSHOT 𓆦 lost files 爱屋及乌 — everything is connected to everything

─── now playing: “something i’ll never admit” — slowed + reverb

⋆𖦹 nothing is permanent here, not even the version of me you’re reading

—

#爱屋及乌 redapples!!

ambv4mp

not him blowing a kiss, UGH HE’S SO PRETTY

goodnight, my red apples!

─── 𖤐 命運 MASTERLIST OR WHATEVER!

GOTTA GET THEM RED APPLES!

ᯓ CORTIS

THE BET w. ZHAO YUFAN HERE! | EPILOGUE! 𝑤.𝑐: 16.1k

𝒔ynopsis:

The bet was supposed to be harmless. James bets his teammates he can get the smartest girl in school to go on one date with him. The smartest girl in school being you. Unfortunately for him, you're the only person who has never been impressed by his popularity. What starts as an attempt to win a stupid challenge quickly spirals out of control when James actually gets to know you. The more time he spends with you, the less he cares about the bet. The problem? You eventually find out. And heartbreak hurts a lot more when the person apologizing is the one you were starting to love.

YOU LOOK LIKE A LOVE SONG w. MARTIN EDWARDS HERE! 𝑤.𝑐: 3.5k

𝒔ynopsis:

Martin isn't the kind of person people notice immediately. He's always in the background. Headphones around his neck, hands shoved in his pockets, quietly following his friends through crowded hallways. He doesn't talk much, doesn't smile often, and definitely doesn't believe in things like soulmates. Then you accidentally end up in one of his photographs. And then another. And another. Somewhere between late-night yearbook deadlines, empty classrooms after school, and bus rides home beneath flickering streetlights, Martin realizes he's started looking for you in every room he enters. The problem? He's never been good at saying what he feels. And you're starting to think he'll never say anything at all.

COLORBLIND w. MARTIN EDWARDS HERE! | EPILOGUE! 𝑤.𝑐: 12k

𝒔ynopsis:

The senior art showcase is supposed to be your ticket into college. Your photography portfolio needs one final project. Martin Edwards needs someone to document his artwork. So naturally, your teacher pairs you together. You expect Martin to be rude. He expects you to be annoying. Instead, you end up spending every afternoon exploring abandoned places, taking photos, and sharing pieces of yourselves neither of you usually show anyone. The more pictures you take of Martin, the more impossible it becomes to ignore the way you feel. The problem? Your final portfolio is due in three weeks. And Martin's family is moving away the day after graduation.

ᯓ BLACKPINK

A LIL' STUCK w. JENNIE KIM HERE! 𝑤.𝑐: 2.4k

𝒔ynopsis:

One outfit gets stuck, a zipper breaks right before a performance. They’re forced into a tight space backstage fixing it, hands accidentally brushing, both pretending it’s normal. The stylist keeps interrupting, which makes everything worse because they can’t even process what’s happening between them.

ᯓ TAGLIST

#pxronbeat1

#gotta get them red apples #爱屋及乌 redapples!!

─── 𖤐 命運 PERM TAGLIST OR WHATEVER!

LIKE OR COMMENT 'RED APPLES' IF WANT TO BE TAGGED!

ᯓ TAGLIST

#pxronbeat1

#爱屋及乌 redapples!!

i'm a little emotionally unstable what about it?

#opalyapping!

eomagahd

BF! ZHAO JAMES ☆

BF! JAMES Who acts annoyed when you wake him up from a nap but immediately pulls you closer to cuddle you and uses the five-more-minute excuse to stay longer in bed.

BF! JAMES Who admires you when you say his full name, Zhao Yu-fan, Zhao James- he loves it when you’re careful with the pronounciation, as if he’d do anything about it. He’d smile while watching you, he thinks it’s adorable.

just finished a 16k fic, now i'm feeling expensive.

LIKE.

EPILOGUE TO THE BET ☘︎ JAMES ZHAO YUFAN

─────⠀basketball captain!𝒋ames x academic weapon!f!reader 𓂃 FIC HERE!

✦ 𝒔ynopsis:

꒰ ⌗ basketball captain!james, academic weapon!reader, fake intentions, enemies to lovers, groveling, jealousy, school drama, emotional angst, fluff, mutual pining, redemption arc, popular boy x quiet girl, slowburn, happy ending ꒱

꒰ ⚠︎ content warnings ─── betrayal, rumors, arguments, emotional confrontation, crying, jealousy, heartbreak, lots of tension, eventual reconciliation and kissing ꒱

EPILOGUE

⊹

The scholarship announcement went up on the main board on a Tuesday in April.

Your name, first. The Hartley Academic Excellence Award — the one you'd been working toward since freshman year, the full-tuition scholarship to your first-choice school, which had sent the acceptance letter in mid-March and which you had read three times in your room alone before calling your parents and then Soo-Yeon and then, for the first time first of anyone, James.

You were at your locker when you saw the announcement. You read it twice. You looked at your name at the top of the list and felt something that was not quite pride — pride wasn't big enough — and not quite relief, though it was that too. It was the feeling of something you'd worked toward for years actually arriving.

You took a photo and sent it to your parents.

Then you texted James: it went up

He replied in thirty seconds: I saw it. I'm looking at it right now.

You: where are you

Him: main corridor. I may have come to look at it on purpose.

You: you knew it was going up today

Him: Soo-Yeon told me. She thought I should know.

You made a mental note to say something to Soo-Yeon later. Something grateful, probably.

You: I'll see you at the library

Him: I'll be there.

You were there at 2:58. He was already there, and he had brought good coffee, and there were two small white ranunculus on his side of the table, and when you sat down he looked at you the way he had been looking at you for a while now, steady and open and completely certain.

"Congratulations," he said.

"Thank you," you said.

"You worked for it."

"I did."

"From the beginning." He tilted his head. "Long before I ever sat across this table."

"Yes."

He smiled. The real one. You'd stopped trying to be unaffected by it, which was easier than you'd expected once you stopped trying.

You opened your laptop. He opened his textbook. The April light came through the window and the cherry tree outside was in full bloom now, white and reckless and entirely committed to spring.

"Hey," he said.

You looked up.

"I'm glad you let me stay," he said. "That first week. When I sat down."

"You were very persistent," you said.

"Yeah." He looked at his textbook. Back at you. "Worth it."

"The light was not better in this corner," you said. "There's no directional preference to the library's fluorescent lighting."

"It was better," he said, entirely seriously. "There was one person here who made it better."

You looked at him for a moment. He looked back, calm and warm and that particular kind of honest that you'd come to understand as just — him. The unstrategic him. The real one.

"Study," you said.

"Yeah," he said.

You both studied.

Under the table, his foot found yours.

You didn't move.

The cherry tree bloomed outside the window, and the afternoon went on, and whatever came next was going to be — honest. Complicated and uncharted and thoroughly imperfect and honest, which was, you had come to believe, the only foundation worth building anything on.

The bet was over.

Everything else was just beginning.

fin.

END

THE BET ☘︎ JAMES ZHAO YUFAN

─────⠀basketball captain!𝒋ames x academic weapon!f!reader 𓂃 EPILOGUE HERE!

✦ 𝒔ynopsis:

✦ 𝑤.𝑐: 16.1k

꒰ ⚠︎ content warnings ─── betrayal, rumors, arguments, emotional confrontation, crying, jealousy, heartbreak, lots of tension, eventual reconciliation and kissing ꒱

The thing about James Zhao Yufan was that he had never, in his three years at Linfield Academy, lost a bet.

Not once.

He'd bet Marcus that he could sink thirty free throws in a row the first week of sophomore year. He'd sunk thirty-two. He'd bet Deon he could get the cafeteria to change its Thursday pasta dish just by complaining loudly enough near the principal's office. It took two weeks, but the pasta was gone. He'd bet his entire team a hundred each that he'd score forty points in the regional semifinals.

Final score: James Zhao Yufan — 43.

So when the locker room erupted after their latest win — a blowout, 78-51 against Riverside Prep — and Marcus slid onto the bench next to him with that particular grin he wore when something stupid was about to come out of his mouth, James should have known better.

He was still riding the high of the game. That was his only excuse.

"Okay," Marcus said, slapping his hands together. "I got one."

"No," James said, toweling off his face.

"You haven't even heard it."

"I don't need to."

"James." Marcus spread his arms wide to include the rest of the locker room — Deon, Riku, Felix, and a few of the younger guys on the bench who'd started paying attention. "The man is scared."

"I'm not scared of your bet. I'm tired of your bets."

"He's scared," Deon confirmed, nodding seriously from across the room.

James lowered the towel and gave them both a flat look. He was five foot ten, built from four years of pre-dawn drills and weight sessions, and was generally agreed upon — by students, faculty, and three separate college scouts — to be the most naturally composed person at Linfield Academy. He did not get rattled.

"Fine," he said. "What is it."

Marcus's grin widened into something almost feral. "Get her to go on a date with you."

James waited. "…Who?"

"You know who."

He didn't. Or — he thought he might. Because Marcus was jerking his chin in that specific direction, the one that corresponded, if you were standing in the locker room and accounting for walls and corridors, to the eastern wing of the school. The library wing.

"You're not serious," James said.

"Dead serious."

Felix leaned over from the adjacent locker. "She turned down Tyler Chen last month. And Tyler's like, objectively—"

"Don't," James said.

"Objectively attractive," Felix finished. "I'm just saying. She's notoriously—"

"Uninterested," Riku supplied, looking up from his phone.

"I was going to say particular."

James sat back against his locker and folded his arms. He knew exactly who they meant now. Of course he did. There was only one person at Linfield Academy famous for being entirely, specifically, almost aggressively unbothered by social hierarchy. One person who had turned down invitations to every party, every group project, every cafeteria table that extended her an invitation, who spent her lunch breaks in the library corner that she'd apparently claimed sometime in freshman year, whose name appeared at the top of every academic ranking, every honor roll list, every scholarship announcement.

You.

He knew you the way you knew someone who existed in your peripheral vision for three years — as a shape, a presence, a fact of the school environment. He knew you were top of the class. He knew you were in AP everything. He knew you had exactly two friends: a small, fierce girl named Soo-Yeon who was in the debate club and terrified most of the student body, and a quiet boy named Elliot who was in the science olympiad and barely spoke above a whisper.

He did not know your favorite color or what made you laugh or whether you'd even noticed him.

(He suspected you hadn't.)

"She doesn't date," James said.

"She doesn't date losers," Marcus corrected. "You're not a loser."

"How much?" James asked, because that was the important question with Marcus. Always the important question.

"Two hundred each." Marcus gestured around the locker room. "From everyone here. Call it — six guys, so twelve hundred total."

"And the terms?"

"One date. Confirmed by her, not just you saying it happened. Has to be an actual planned outing, not just studying together or something that she doesn't know counts. Real date. You've got—" Marcus considered— "six weeks."

James thought about it for approximately four seconds.

Twelve hundred dollars was not life-changing money, but it was respectable money. He had a trip he'd been vaguely planning, and the extra funds wouldn't hurt.

More than the money, though, there was something in the challenge itself that hooked him. Not because you weren't worth knowing — he had no opinion on that yet — but because he genuinely had never lost a bet, and the idea of starting now felt quietly unacceptable.

"Fine," he said, standing. "Deal."

Marcus whooped. The younger guys looked both excited and slightly horrified, the way they always did when James agreed to something.

He grabbed his bag and headed for the door.

"Hey," Felix called after him. "You actually know her name, right?"

James paused with his hand on the door.

He did know your name. Everyone did — it was on the honor board in the main hallway, had been every semester since freshman year.

"Yeah," he said. "I know her name."

He walked out.

Behind him, Marcus was already laughing.

⊹

You had a system.

Table four, eastern corner of the library, beside the window that got afternoon light from two to four PM. Left side of the table for current work, right side for reference materials. Water bottle positioned at the top left corner. Highlighters arranged by color — yellow for key terms, blue for supporting evidence, pink for things you needed to return to.

It was not obsessive. It was efficient. There was a difference, and you were very tired of people conflating the two.

Tuesday afternoons were for AP Chemistry review and college essay drafts, in that order. You had three essays started and none of them were right yet. The first one was too formal. The second one was trying too hard to be personal and reading as performative. The third one was the closest, but the opening paragraph wasn't landing.

You'd been staring at the third essay for forty minutes when the chair across from you scraped back.

You looked up.

James Zhao Yufan sat down.

You stared at him.

He stared back, easy and comfortable, like he sat across from you every day.

"…Can I help you?" you said, in the tone that most people correctly interpreted as please leave.

"I'm looking for a study spot," he said.

You looked around the library. It was a Tuesday afternoon. Linfield's library was large and three-quarters empty, as it always was on Tuesdays because the athletics schedule meant half the school was at practice.

"There are," you said carefully, "approximately forty other tables."

"This one has better light."

You closed your laptop slightly and looked at him properly. James Zhao Yufan was — well. You weren't unaware that he was attractive. You weren't blind, and you weren't so buried in textbooks that you'd missed three years of him being essentially the defining personality of Linfield Academy. You knew his name, his position, his GPA (decent, not remarkable), and the approximate size of his social circle (large, chaotic, loyal).

What you did not know was why he was sitting across from you.

"The light," you repeated.

"Mm." He pulled a textbook from his bag — Calculus BC, you noted, which surprised you slightly — and set it on the table. "Don't mind me."

You minded him. Considerably. But you were also three paragraphs into a chemistry problem set and you were on a schedule, and the most dignified response was probably to ignore him rather than make a scene.

You opened your laptop again.

He was quiet. Irritatingly, surprisingly quiet. You'd expected him to be a distractor — someone who'd need to make noise, narrate his confusion, exist loudly in your space. But he just… studied. Or appeared to study. You found yourself glancing up three times in the first twenty minutes to verify that he was still there and still, somehow, not bothering you.

He was.

At 3:47, he said: "Do you have a preference about people being in your study space?"

You looked up. "Yes."

"Is it no?"

"It's yes, I have a preference. The preference is for quiet and solitude."

He nodded, apparently filing this away. "Got it."

He went back to his textbook.

You waited for a follow-up. There wasn't one.

At 4:15, you started packing up, because you had tutoring at 4:30 on Tuesdays. You organized your things with the efficiency of long practice — laptop, notebooks, highlighters in their case, reference books stacked by size.

"Same time Thursday?" James asked, without looking up.

You paused. "What?"

"I'm usually at practice Tuesday and Thursday until three." He glanced up, and something in his expression was genuinely unreadable. "This time works for me."

"I don't—" You stopped. Chose a different angle. "I study here every Tuesday and Thursday. I don't recall inviting you."

"You didn't un-invite me either."

"I suggested you find another table."

"And I explained about the light."

You looked at him for a long moment. He looked back, calm, apparently comfortable with the sustained eye contact in a way that was slightly unnerving.

"Thursday," you said, "I will be studying. Not hosting."

"That's fine," he said. "I'll just be studying. Not being hosted."

You picked up your bag and left.

You were three hallways away before you realized you'd just agreed to see him on Thursday.

⊹

"He sat across from you," Soo-Yeon said, with the tone of a detective who'd just found a fingerprint.

"He sat across from me," you confirmed, eating your lunch and reviewing your chem notes simultaneously, because Tuesday lunch was the only time you allowed yourself to eat in the cafeteria with other humans.

"James Zhao Yufan."

"Yes."

"The James Zhao Yufan."

"He is, as far as I know, the only one."

Soo-Yeon set down her chopsticks. Across the table, Elliot continued eating with the focused serenity of someone who had decided this conversation did not require his involvement, which was standard Elliot behavior.

"Okay," Soo-Yeon said. "Why?"

"He said he liked the light."

"The light," Soo-Yeon repeated.

"In the corner by the window."

"The light," Soo-Yeon said again, but differently this time, with a specific cadence that indicated she found this implausible and was cataloguing it for later.

"He's coming back Thursday," you added, because you were constitutionally incapable of omitting relevant information even when it was going to make Soo-Yeon do the thing she was currently doing, which was leaning forward on her elbows with narrowed eyes.

"He's coming back?"

"Apparently."

"You didn't tell him not to."

"I told him I wasn't hosting. He said he wasn't being hosted."

Soo-Yeon sat back. "Hm."

"It's not a thing," you said.

"I didn't say it was a thing."

"Your face said it was a thing."

"My face said," Soo-Yeon corrected, "that it's interesting, because James Zhao Yufan has not, in three years at this school, been observed voluntarily spending time in the library. He's not known for seeking out quiet corners. He's known for being loudly in the center of every room."

You absorbed this. "Maybe he's changing his habits."

"Maybe," Soo-Yeon said, in the tone that meant sure, and maybe the earth is flat.

"Elliot," you said. "Thoughts?"

Elliot looked up. "I think," he said carefully, "that statistically, people don't change their habits without a reason." He looked back down at his food. "Just in general. As a principle."

"Thank you, Elliot," Soo-Yeon said warmly.

"I'm going to go to the library Thursday," you said, "and if he's there, I'll ignore him, and if he continues to show up, I will tell him to stop."

"That's a very reasonable plan," Soo-Yeon said.

"Thank you."

"For someone who doesn't see anything strange about any of this."

"I don't."

"Mm." Soo-Yeon picked up her chopsticks again. "Okay."

She said it the way she always said things when she was planning to be right later.

You went back to your chem notes.

⊹

He was there when you arrived.

That was the first surprise — that he'd gotten there before you. You were always at table four by 2:58, and it was 2:59 when you walked in, which meant he'd arrived at some point in the last hour or after his practice let out early, neither of which made particular sense.

He had his calculus textbook open again. He'd also brought a bottle of water and a granola bar, which he'd positioned in the upper right corner of his side of the table, which was — you noted, with a flicker of something you refused to name — the opposite corner from where you kept yours.

He looked up when you sat down.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," you said, with exactly enough politeness to be non-offensive and exactly enough distance to be a warning.

He nodded and went back to his calculus.

You studied for seven minutes in genuine peace before he said, "Optimization problems."

You looked up.

He was frowning at his textbook. "They always get me."

"Are you asking for help?"

He met your eyes. "Would you give it?"

You considered this. "What specifically is the problem?"

"Setting up the function." He turned the book to show you. "I can do the calculus part, the derivatives and finding the critical points. It's the — building the thing. The translation from the word problem to the equation."

You looked at the problem. It was a classic related-rates setup — a ladder sliding down a wall, find the rate at which the top of the ladder was descending when it was a certain height.

"Read it out loud," you said.

He did. His voice was even and clear, without the self-consciousness people sometimes had about reading in front of others.

"Now tell me what's changing," you said.

"…The position of the ladder."

"More specific."

"Both positions. The bottom's moving out, the top's moving down."

"So what do you need to relate?"

A pause. "The rates. How fast each is changing with respect to each other."

"And what connects the positions?"

He looked at the diagram. You watched him think — watched the moment it clicked, when his expression shifted from frustrated concentration to something opening up. It happened faster than you expected.

"Pythagorean theorem," he said. "Because it's a right triangle."

"Yes."

He worked through the rest of it himself, writing in clean, spare notation in the margins of the textbook. You went back to your chemistry.

Five minutes later: "Got it."

You glanced over. He had. The work was laid out correctly, the answer reasonable.

"Mm," you said.

"Thanks."

"I didn't do anything."

"You asked the right questions." He looked at you, and again there was that thing in his expression that you couldn't quite read. "That's doing something."

You had no particular response to that. You went back to chemistry.

At the end of the session — 4:47 today, slightly later than usual — you packed up and he packed up alongside you, with a quiet efficiency that surprised you again.

"Thursday's good," he said, shouldering his bag.

"For what."

"For this."

You looked at him. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but there was something in the corner of his mouth.

"This isn't — we're not—" You stopped, regrouped. "You're not my study partner."

"I know," he said. "We're just two people who study in the same place."

"Right."

"At the same time."

"Correct."

"Consistently."

You opened your mouth and then closed it, because he wasn't wrong, and you had walked directly into the logic of it.

"Goodbye," you said.

"See you Tuesday," he said.

⊹

Here is what James would tell you, later, about this period of time: that the bet was real, and that he had started with genuine strategic intent, and that things had begun shifting almost immediately, faster than he had expected or prepared for.

Here is what he would not easily admit: that he had Googled you before Tuesday.

Not in a strange way. In a — he needed information, for the project, which is how he was thinking about it. The project. He needed to understand who he was dealing with, what approach might work, what was known publicly about you that he could use to build rapport.

He found: your name consistently at the top of the honor roll list, going back to freshman year. A quote in the school newspaper from sophomore year about the academic decathlon team, in which you were described as quietly devastating. A brief mention in a regional academic journal — for high school students, which was apparently a thing that existed — where you'd co-authored something on environmental chemistry with a professor from a nearby college.

Co-authored. As a sophomore. With a college professor.

He'd put his phone down for a moment and reconsidered.

The thing was, the bet was fine. He'd done more complicated social projects in less time. He was good with people — genuinely good, not in a fake way, he actually liked people and was interested in them. The challenge was just that you were, apparently, not particularly interested in being liked.

That was interesting to him. In a way he didn't examine closely.

Tuesday had gone — okay. Not great. You'd been exactly as cool and contained as he'd expected, you'd told him to leave without quite asking him to leave, and he'd stayed anyway because that also seemed like the right move. He'd actually studied, because he actually needed to study and because pretending to be somewhere for six weeks while pretending to study was not sustainable.

The calculus thing on Thursday had not been planned. He'd genuinely been stuck on the optimization problems. But watching you explain something — watching the way you approached it, the questions you asked instead of just giving him the answer — had been unexpectedly interesting. You were a good teacher. You probably didn't know you were a good teacher, or maybe you did, but you'd done it without making him feel stupid, which was rarer than people understood.

He was walking home Thursday night when Marcus called.

"How's the project," Marcus said, in lieu of a greeting.

"Don't call it a project," James said.

"How's the bet."

"Fine. Early stages."

"It's been two sessions and she hasn't thrown you out of the library. That's a win."

"She doesn't know my name," James said, which was not quite accurate — he thought you knew his name, you'd just refused to use it — but was spiritually honest.

"She'll know it eventually."

"I know."

"James." Marcus was using his serious voice, which was actually serious — Marcus, beneath the chaos, was his best friend for a reason. "You good? Feels like you're — thinking about this one."

"I think about all of them."

"You think about strategy for all of them. You sound like you're thinking about her."

James walked half a block in silence.

"She co-authored a paper with a college professor when she was a sophomore," he said.

"…Okay."

"She explained calculus to me by asking questions instead of explaining. Like she wanted me to get there myself."

"Okay," Marcus said, differently.

"I don't know. She's just — interesting."

Marcus was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had gone careful in a way James recognized as concern wearing a light disguise. "That's fine. Just — remember the bet has a structure. Okay? Remember that's what's happening."

"I know what's happening," James said.

"I know you know. I'm just saying."

"I know, Marcus."

He hung up and walked the rest of the way home, and he did not think about you any more than was reasonable for someone who was supposed to be pursuing a strategic goal and was definitely not getting interested in you as a person.

He definitely did not.

⊹

It happened on a Tuesday, three weeks in.

You were working on the college essay — the third one, the one that was almost right — when you got stuck on the same paragraph you'd been stuck on for two weeks. The opening wasn't landing. It wasn't bad, exactly, it was just — correct. Technically correct. Which was somehow worse.

You made a frustrated sound under your breath.

"What's wrong?" James said.

You looked up. He'd started bringing coffee to these sessions — two cups, one of which always ended up on your side of the table, which you'd initially refused to acknowledge and had more recently been drinking, because it was good coffee and you were a pragmatist.

"Essay," you said.

"College?"

"Yes."

He was quiet for a moment. "Can I read it?"

"No."

"Fair." He tilted his head. "What's wrong with it?"

"The opening. It's technically correct but it reads like—" you searched for the word— "like I'm trying to sound like myself instead of being myself."

"Hm." He turned his pen between his fingers, a habit you'd catalogued. He did it when he was thinking. "What's it about?"

"The essay?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not telling you the content."

"I'm not asking for content. I'm asking what it's about. There's a difference."

You looked at him. He looked back. This had become normal — the looking, the occasional conversation, the specific rhythm of studying alongside someone who was, despite your intentions, no longer a stranger.

You still hadn't thought about why he was here. You'd carefully not thought about it, in the way you carefully didn't follow tangential thoughts during problem sets. Some things were better approached directly and some things were better bracketed for later.

"It's about," you said slowly, "the moment I realized I was good at something. Not — not just good. Suited to it. Like a lock and key, the thing and the person finally being in the same place."

He was quiet.

"It's about chemistry," you added. "The actual subject. When I understood, really understood, molecular bonding. Why things hold together."

"That's a good essay," he said.

"I haven't shown it to you."

"It sounds like a good essay." He uncapped his pen and pulled over a blank page of his notebook. "Read me the opening."

"I said—"

"Just the opening. I'm not a college admissions officer. I can't steal it, I'm not applying to the same schools you are, and I genuinely just want to help." He paused. "Also, you've helped me with calculus every week for three weeks. Let me do something."

You had, in fact, helped him with calculus — not because you'd agreed to, but because he kept getting stuck on things and asking questions and the questions were increasingly good and you had difficulty not answering a good question. It had become a loose, unspoken arrangement.

You looked at the opening paragraph. Then you read it aloud.

He listened. When you finished, he said: "The last sentence of that paragraph should be your first sentence."

You looked at the paragraph again. Re-read it in your head with the last sentence first.

Oh.

"Because it's the most specific thing in there," he said. "The rest of it is context, but that sentence is you. It's the reason anyone should keep reading."

"That's — yes," you said, reluctantly. "That's right."

"Move it up, rewrite the connective tissue, you'll be fine."

You looked at him. "How do you know anything about college essays?"

"I wrote four of them last year." His mouth curved slightly. "Athletic recruitment adds extra essays. I've spent a lot of time thinking about how to describe myself in ways that feel true."

"Is that difficult for you?"

"More than people think," he said, and his voice was even but something in it was unguarded in a way it hadn't been before, or maybe you were only noticing it now.

There was a moment of quiet that was different from the usual study quiet.

"I'm—" you started.

"James," he said.

You stopped.

"You still haven't used my name," he said, and he wasn't accusing, exactly. More — observing. "In four weeks."

"I know your name."

"I know you know it." He met your eyes. "I don't know why you won't use it."

You looked down at your essay. Re-read the opening paragraph. Put your cursor at the last sentence.

"James," you said, without looking up.

A pause.

"That's a start," he said.

And you could hear him smiling, even though you were looking at your screen and not at him, and you didn't say anything, and you rearranged the paragraph, and it was better.

⊹

The shift happened in the school hallway on a Wednesday, which was the day you had no overlap with James and therefore the day you'd expected to think about him least.

You were at your locker before AP Literature, pulling out your annotated copy of Middlemarch, when you heard his voice down the hall. He was with his usual group — Marcus, Deon, a few others — moving through the crowded corridor with the ease of people who took up space naturally and expected the space to accommodate them.

He hadn't seen you yet.

You were not watching him. You were getting your book. But you were also — you registered this with clinical impartiality — aware of exactly where he was in the hall, and tracking his movement in your peripheral vision.

He saw you when he was about ten feet away. There was a fractional pause in his movement, barely perceptible. Then he said something to Marcus, broke off from the group, and changed course toward you.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," you said, in the voice that was becoming less of a defense and more of a habit.

"Library today?"

"It's Wednesday."

"Right." He leaned against the adjacent locker — not crowding your space, just adjacent. "What do you do on Wednesdays?"

You thought about telling him this was not relevant information. You thought about maintaining the polite minimum distance you'd established.

"Literature," you said. "And then piano."

He looked at you. "You play piano?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know that."

"There's no reason you would have."

"What kind of music?"

"Classical, mostly. Some contemporary." You closed your locker. "Why?"

"Just interested."

"In piano."

"In you," he said.

It was so direct and so simple that you didn't have an immediate response to it. You stood there for a moment, holding your copy of Middlemarch, and James Zhao Yufan looked at you with an expression that was open in a way that made something in your chest do something you preferred not to examine.

"That's—" you started.

"See you Thursday," he said, and pushed off from the locker, and headed back toward his group.

You watched him go.

Marcus glanced back at you over his shoulder and you looked away quickly, which was the most undignified thing you'd done in recent memory.

In you, he'd said.

You walked to AP Literature and spent the first ten minutes of class not entirely present, which had never, in three years, happened to you before.

⊹

It rained on the following Tuesday, a genuine downpour that turned the walk from the parking lot to the building into a minor endurance event. You had an umbrella. You always had an umbrella; you checked the weather every morning as part of your routine.

James, apparently, did not check the weather.

He arrived at the library six minutes after you, moderately drenched — jacket dark with water, hair wet, water droplets on his eyelashes, which you did not notice, or which you noticed only in the way one noticed environmental details.

He sat down. Water dripped from his hair onto his calculus textbook and he made a quiet, frustrated noise.

You pulled a travel pack of tissues from your bag — you also always had tissues — and set them on his side of the table without comment.

He looked at them. Looked at you.

"Thank you," he said.

"Your textbook is getting wet."

"I know." He blotted the pages. "I had practice, the rain started, I didn't have time to—"

"It's fine," you said. "I don't need the explanation."

He was quiet for a moment, dabbing at the textbook with the tissues. Then: "You always have everything."

"I plan ahead."

"I know." He glanced up, and his hair was still damp, falling slightly across his forehead, and you looked at your chem notes. "I've noticed."

"What have you noticed?"

"The highlighters. The water bottle in the same spot. The way you organize the reference books." He said it neutrally, not mockingly. "It's — you have a system."

"Most efficient use of the study time," you said.

"Does it work?"

"I'm ranked first in the class."

"Then it works." He propped his damp textbook up against his bag to let it dry, and pulled out a notebook instead. "I used to be more organized. Freshman year. Had everything color-coded."

"What happened?"

"The team. The schedule. It got harder to plan around." He shrugged, one-shouldered. "I had to learn to adapt instead."

"That's a different skill," you said.

"Yeah. Not better or worse, just — different." He glanced at you again. "You're good at planning. I'm good at adapting. I wonder sometimes what it would look like if you had to adapt to something unexpected."

"I adapt," you said, slightly stiffly.

"I know. I just wonder how it feels for you." He was watching you with that open, genuinely curious expression. "Whether it bothers you or whether you find it interesting."

No one had asked you that before. Not phrased like that — not how does it feel rather than how do you do it.

"Both," you said, after a moment. "Depending on the thing."

He nodded. The rain hammered against the library windows. He opened his notebook and began working, and you went back to chemistry, and the silence settled around you both in a way that was — comfortable. Genuinely comfortable. Which was perhaps the strangest thing that had happened yet.

At 4:30, you realized you were forty minutes past when you usually packed up.

You started gathering your things without thinking, then stopped. James was deep in something — his notebook was half-full, working through what looked like a physics problem set, and he was writing fast, occasionally backtracking and rewriting.

You watched him for a moment. The rain had mostly stopped. The afternoon light was doing something gold and oblique through the now-wet window.

"I should go," you said.

"Mm." He didn't look up. "Okay."

"You're past the optimization problems now."

"Yeah." He did look up then, and the gold light was — irrelevant. "Your tutoring got me through them."

"I wasn't tutoring you."

"Your adjacent studying and occasional answering of questions got me through them," he corrected, and the corner of his mouth was doing the almost-smile thing.

You stood with your bag. "Thursday," you said, which was not — you realized — an acknowledgment of his schedule. It was a see-you-Thursday. You had said see-you-Thursday.

He recognized it too. The almost-smile became slightly more of a smile.

"Thursday," he said.

⊹

You did not go to basketball games.

This was a fact of your three years at Linfield, a constant, a known quantity. You had no interest in athletics as a spectator event. You had nothing against sports — you respected the discipline involved — but you had consistently better things to do on Friday nights than sit in the gymnasium watching a ball go through a hoop.

So you were not sure how you ended up in the gymnasium on Friday.

Soo-Yeon had asked. That was part of it. Soo-Yeon had said, just once, we've never been, it's our senior year, and Elliot had said, mildly, that he'd heard the games were statistically exciting, and you had said fine, one game, this doesn't become a pattern.

The gymnasium was loud in a way the library was categorically not. The lights were different. The crowd was different. You sat in the stands with Soo-Yeon on your left and Elliot on your right, and you watched the team warm up, and you found James before you meant to, before you'd consciously started looking.

He was at the free throw line, taking practice shots, smooth and repetitive and precise. He made eight in a row. The ninth was slightly offline and he caught the rebound himself, reset, made the next three.

"You're watching him," Soo-Yeon said, not accusingly.

"I'm observing the warm-up," you said.

"Your observing has a very specific subject."

The game started. You discovered, somewhat against your will, that it was interesting. Not the sport itself — or not only that — but watching James play was interesting in the specific way that watching anyone who was genuinely excellent at something was interesting. He was a different person on the court than he was at the library table. Still composed, still controlled, but kinetic in a way that didn't exist in the quiet of the study sessions. He moved like someone who thought through his body rather than despite it.

At halftime, Linfield was up by twelve. People around you were loud and happy. Soo-Yeon was eating popcorn and looking at you sideways.

"So," she said.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not saying anything."

"Your face is saying a great deal."

"My face is just a face." She offered you popcorn. "How are the study sessions going?"

"Fine."

"'Fine' like productive, or 'fine' like complicated?"

You took some popcorn. "Fine like I'm getting work done."

"And is he getting work done?"

"He's genuinely improved at calculus. He understands optimization problems now."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," you said.

Soo-Yeon turned to face you more fully. "Do you like him?"

"That's—"

"Yes or no."

"It's not a yes or no question."

"In my experience," Soo-Yeon said, "when someone responds to 'do you like him' with 'it's not a yes or no question,' that's the yes."

The second half started. You watched James receive a pass, fake left, drive right, lay it up. Clean. Easy.

"He's interesting," you said finally. "He's more intelligent than he presents. He asks good questions. He—" You stopped.

"He what?"

"He asked me how it feels to have to adapt to something unexpected," you said. "Not how I do it. How it feels."

Soo-Yeon was quiet.

"No one asks me that," you said. "They ask me how I do things. What my system is. What my method is. He asked how it feels."

Soo-Yeon was quiet for a moment longer. Then she said: "Be careful."

"I'm always careful."

"I know. I mean—" She chose her words. "He moves in a very different orbit than you. And people in different orbits don't always — intersect cleanly."

"I'm aware."

"And you've never been in a situation like this."

"I've been in—" you started, then stopped. Because she was right. You had not been in a situation like this. You had never had someone sit across from you for five weeks and slowly, quietly, un-strange themselves until they were something that felt necessary.

"I know," you said.

"Okay," Soo-Yeon said, and she put her hand briefly over yours, and you watched the second half and Linfield won, and James looked up into the stands at some point in the victory celebration and found you there, which shouldn't have been possible in a crowd this size but it happened, and the look on his face when he found you was something you kept in your peripheral memory for a long time afterward.

⊹

October arrived with cold mornings and the college application portal opening and the specific pressure of senior year entering its most urgent phase.

You had your list. Seven schools, ordered by preference. Three reaches, two targets, two safeties, all calibrated by program quality, scholarship availability, and research opportunity. You had your application timeline charted out to the day.

What you did not have charted out was the fact that James would ask you, on a Thursday in early October, if you wanted to get coffee.

Not library coffee — actual coffee. Off-campus, after studying.

"There's a place two blocks from school," he said, with the same calm he brought to everything. "I usually go after Thursday practice when I'm not staying late. It's good."

"Coffee," you said.

"Coffee," he confirmed.

"That's not—" you started.

"Just coffee," he said. "Not a thing. Just coffee."

You were quiet for a moment. The thing was — the thing was — you'd been doing this for six weeks. Six weeks of Tuesday-Thursday studying that had become, quietly and without announcement, the part of your week you thought about most. Six weeks of James asking the right questions and saying things that were more honest than you expected and being, in his quietly persistent way, someone you looked forward to seeing.

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you. "Yeah?"

"Yes. Coffee is fine."

The coffee shop was small and warm and smelled like dark roast and cinnamon. James ordered with the ease of someone who came here often; you ordered your usual, and he remembered it on subsequent visits, which you noticed and did not comment on.

You sat at a small table by the window. October light outside, orange and low.

"Can I ask you something?" James said.

"You usually don't ask permission first."

"This one's different."

You looked at him across the small table, the shorter distance between you here than at the library, close enough to see the details you'd catalogued over six weeks: the way he held his cup, both hands, the quiet focus he turned on things, the specific shape of his attention when it was directed at you.

"Go ahead," you said.

"Why no parties?" he asked. "In three years. Invitations come, I know they do, and you always — you're just not there. Why?"

It wasn't the question you expected. "That's personal."

"I know. You don't have to answer."

You thought about it. "When I was fourteen," you said, "I was at a party — someone's birthday, a school thing. And someone asked me what I'd want to do when I grew up and I told them honestly, and everyone laughed. Not meanly. Just — the way you laugh at something that doesn't fit the context." You looked at your coffee. "I didn't like being a thing that didn't fit the context."

"So you stopped going to the contexts," James said.

"Something like that."

He was quiet for a moment. "For what it's worth," he said, "I've never seen you not fit somewhere."

"You've only seen me in a library."

"I've seen you in this coffee shop. I saw you at the game last Friday."

You looked at him.

"You were in the stands," he said. "Second section, third row."

"I was aware of my location," you said, recovering.

"I wasn't sure you'd be there. I was—" He paused. "I was glad you were."

The thing about James, you had realized somewhere in the past six weeks, was that he said things like that. Just — said them. Directly and clearly, without the hedging and qualification that most people used to make honesty comfortable for themselves. He said I was glad you were there the same way he'd said I'm interested in you, and both times it had done something to the way you were breathing.

"It was Soo-Yeon's idea," you said, somewhat weakly.

"I know." His mouth curved. "I'm glad she had it."

You stayed for two hours. You talked about — the college process, and what you wanted, and what you were afraid of, and he told you about the basketball scholarship options and the complicated math of athletic recruitment and how he was figuring out what he wanted to do if his knees didn't hold through college, which he talked about with matter-of-fact realism that surprised you. He talked about his family — his parents, who were proud in ways that sometimes felt like pressure, and his younger sister who wanted to be a marine biologist, which he found genuinely delightful.

You told him about the chemistry paper. About the professor who'd emailed you after you'd submitted a class paper and asked if you wanted to co-author something, and the absolute paralytic terror of that first meeting, and how it had turned out to be — the best experience of your academic life.

"What was terrifying about it?" he asked.

"Someone expecting something of me that I might not be able to deliver."

"And then you delivered it."

"And then I delivered it."

"Is that usually how it goes?"

"More or less." You looked at him. "Is that how it goes for you? On the court?"

"The fear part, yeah." He turned his cup slowly. "People think being confident means not being afraid. It doesn't. It means playing anyway."

You sat with that.

"That's — that's true for other things too," you said.

"I know," he said.

He looked at you across the small table, and the October light was coming through the window, and you thought: oh. This is a problem.

Not a bad problem. Just a problem. The kind that meant something in you had already shifted and you hadn't even clocked the moment of shifting.

⊹

"You like her," Marcus said.

James was in the gym, shooting free throws after practice, which was how he thought. He made six in a row before responding.

"She's—"

"I know I know, she's interesting, she's intelligent, she asks good questions." Marcus bounced a ball idly. "James. You like her."

James made the seventh. "The bet has six weeks."

"The bet has two weeks left," Marcus said. "And I'm starting to feel like — James. You haven't pushed it. You've been doing the study sessions, which, fine, that's not a date, but you've had coffee twice now and you still haven't made a move. You've had opportunities."

"I know."

"So what are you doing?"

James caught the rebound from his eighth shot and held the ball. "She doesn't know," he said.

"Correct. And if she did—"

"She'd leave."

The words landed in the gym with more weight than he'd intended. Marcus stopped bouncing his ball.

"James," Marcus said.

"I know."

"When did you — how long have you actually—"

"I don't know." James shot the ninth. Made it. "Somewhere around week three. Maybe earlier."

Marcus was quiet for a long moment. "So what do you want to do?"

"I want to—" He stopped. Thought. "I want to tell her. Before anything happens. I want to tell her about the bet, and I want to—" He stopped again.

"Say it."

"I want to see if she'll give me a chance anyway. To do it again, correctly. Without the bet."

"That's," Marcus said slowly, "either very brave or very stupid."

"I know."

"She's going to be angry."

"I know."

"It might not work."

"I know, Marcus."

Marcus picked up his ball and shot it. Made it. "When are you going to tell her?"

"I need more time. I want to — I want her to know who I actually am first. Not the bet, not the basketball captain thing, just — me. So when I tell her, she knows what she's choosing."

"That's assuming she'll want to choose it."

"Yeah," James said. "I know that too."

He shot again.

And missed.

First miss of the session.

He stood there looking at the basket for a moment. Then he went and got the rebound, reset, made it clean.

"Tell her soon," Marcus said. "If she finds out another way, it's worse."

"I know," James said.

He didn't tell her soon enough.

⊹

You'd been informed of this two weeks ago, and had been navigating the logistics of working with your assigned partner — a well-meaning boy named Derek who was strong on theory and needed help with experimental design. You'd divided the work cleanly and expected things to go smoothly.

What you had not expected was for James to be, somehow, tangentially involved.

It happened because Derek, who was on the basketball team's junior varsity squad, mentioned the project to James in passing, and James had apparently offered to look at the experimental design section because he'd taken chemistry the previous year and gotten an A.

You arrived at the library on a Thursday to find both of them at table four.

You stood in the doorway for a moment.

James looked up. Something moved across his face — not quite guilt, but something adjacent.

"Derek needed help with the write-up structure," he said. "I hope that's okay."

"This is a shared library," you said, in the voice that had become, over the past weeks, genuinely less of a defense mechanism and more of a wry habit.

"It's my table," James said, with the specific inflection of an inside joke that had been developing over the past two months, and which still caught you somewhere in the chest when he deployed it.

His table. As if the territory of the corner by the window now had joint ownership.

You sat down.

What followed was an hour of actual productive collaborative work, which you had not expected from the addition of a third person and which reflected, you thought, well on both Derek and James. Derek was careful and thorough; James's memory of the lab techniques from his own chem year was more accurate than you'd expected.

At some point, Derek went to the bathroom, and there was a brief window of just you and James.

"Thank you," you said.

"For what?"

"Being useful." You looked at him sideways. "You could have just been here decoratively."

"Is that what you thought I was doing for the first month?" His voice was amused.

"The first month I thought you were here for the light."

He laughed. A real laugh, low and surprised, which you'd learned was different from the easy social laugh he used in crowds. The real laugh was rarer and shorter and somehow more.

"The light," he said. "Right."

"Was that true?" you asked, and it was — you'd never asked before, but it was a genuine question, because something had been sitting at the edge of your thoughts for a while. "Why did you actually start coming here?"

A beat of silence. Not long — just enough for you to notice it.

"I needed somewhere to study," he said. "Somewhere quieter than usual." He met your eyes. "And I'd seen you in here before. I thought—" He paused again, differently this time. "I thought you probably knew how to make it work."

"How to make studying work."

"How to make silence work." His voice was quiet. "People like me don't always know how to do that. Be in a quiet place without filling it."

"You're good at it now," you said. "You were, even that first day."

"Good practice." He smiled at you, smaller and more honest than the public smile, the one you'd come to recognize as specifically for you. "Good company."

Derek came back. The moment closed.

But you sat with good company for the rest of the session, and on the walk home, and honestly for the rest of the week.

⊹

November. Five weeks past the end of the bet.

James had not collected his winnings. He hadn't mentioned it to Marcus. He had been, in some deep and unavoidable part of himself, pretending the bet didn't exist.

He was also, in a very concrete way, falling.

He'd tried not to. He was — he was aware of what this was and what it required of him. He needed to tell you. He'd known that for a month. But every time he formed the intention, something got in the way — the timing was wrong, or you were deep in an essay deadline, or things were going well and he couldn't bear to introduce the fracture.

And things were going well. Things were going — surprisingly, quietly, genuinely well.

You'd started staying later on Thursdays. Sometimes until the library closed at seven. You'd gotten into a rhythm of real conversations, actual conversations about things that mattered: what you wanted out of life, what you were afraid of, what made the world feel large and navigable versus small and arbitrary. He'd told you things he hadn't told many people — about the pressure of being the person on the team, the specific loneliness of being someone that everyone watched but not everyone saw. And you'd told him things you clearly didn't tell anyone easily, in that careful way you had of choosing honesty, of handing over a true thing and watching to see if it was handled properly.

He had tried very hard to handle every true thing properly.

In November he also noticed, in the way he noticed things about you now without trying, that you were stressed. The college portal. Deadlines were converging. You were more precise than usual, which was saying something; you were quieter, which was also saying something; and once, when a notification came up on your laptop that he inadvertently saw, your expression did something complicated and fast that you smoothed over immediately.

"Hey," he said, on a Tuesday in the second week of November.

You looked up.

"Talk to me," he said. "Not about chemistry."

"I'm fine."

"I know you're fine. Talk to me anyway."

You were quiet for a moment. You did that — needed a moment to decide whether to let something through. He'd learned to wait.

"Columbia sent something," you said. "About the supplemental essay. It's — the prompt changed. From what was posted last year. And I've been working off the old prompt for the past month."

"Can you adapt?"

"Yes." You exhaled. "But the timeline is—"

"How much of the work is transferable?"

You blinked. "…A fair amount. The core experience is the same. The framing has to shift."

"Okay." He pulled his notebook to a blank page. "Let's talk through the new prompt."

"You don't know the prompt."

"Tell me."

You looked at him. Then you opened your laptop and read it to him, and he asked questions — not to be useful, but because he was curious, because he genuinely wanted to understand what you were trying to say and how the new frame changed things — and by the end of an hour you had a working outline for the revised essay.

"You didn't need to do that," you said.

"I wanted to." He leaned back. "You've helped me with calculus for two months."

"I helped because the questions were good."

"I helped because—" He stopped. Started again. "Because I wanted to be useful to you."

The afternoon light was doing its November thing — lower now, amber, early. Your laptop screen glowed. He was close enough that he could see the individual letters of the prompt when you turned the screen.

"James," you said.

"Yeah."

"I'm — glad. That you started coming here." Your voice was careful, precise, the way you always handled things that mattered. "In October I wasn't sure. But I'm glad."

He should have told you.

Right then. In that November light, with your careful honest voice and the library closing in an hour and everything between you built up to exactly this moment of trust — he should have said there's something I need to tell you and told you.

He didn't.

He said, "Me too," and meant it more than he'd meant most things.

And the moment closed, and the evening came, and he went home and lay awake for a long time thinking about how much easier it would be if the bet had never happened. If he'd just walked into the library some Tuesday because he needed to study and you'd happened to be there and everything that had built between them had been clean from the beginning.

He lay awake thinking about when, and how, and what you'd say.

He wasn't brave enough. Not yet.

He needed more time.

He didn't have it.

⊹

It was a Wednesday in November, three days after the conversation about the Columbia essay.

You were in the school's east corridor, which you didn't usually use, having taken a different route from the lab back to your locker after a late chemistry makeup. The corridor ran behind the gymnasium, and you could hear voices — the basketball team, post-practice, some of them spilling into the corridor that connected the gym to the locker room.

You were going to walk past.

You heard your name.

Not your full name. Just the sound of it, familiar, unmistakable, in a voice you didn't recognize. You stopped without deciding to stop.

"—seriously though, six weeks was the timeline, that ended like three weeks ago, so are you ever collecting or what?"

A different voice, this one familiar — Marcus, who you knew by sight from the cafeteria, James's best friend. "It's — complicated now."

"Complicated how? Either he got the date or he didn't."

"He didn't. Not — officially. Not by the original terms."

"So he lost the bet?"

A pause.

"He's been spending like every Tuesday and Thursday with her for two months," the unfamiliar voice said. "All that time and no date? That's rough."

"It's not—" Marcus's voice, with an edge that might have been warning or discomfort. "Look, can we not do this in the hallway—"

"I heard he actually likes her now," someone else said, laughing slightly. "Like for real. Isn't that wild."

"Marcus," a fourth voice. "Did he ever get her to agree to a date? For the bet?"

A long pause.

You stood in the corridor and waited.

"No," Marcus said. "He didn't."

"So he lost."

"He—" Another pause. "Yeah. I guess he did."

The voices moved away, toward the locker room. The door swung shut.

You stood there.

Six weeks was the timeline.

The bet.

Get her to go on a date.

The pieces arranged themselves with the horrible efficiency of a mind that was very good at comprehension.

The library. The light. This one has better light.

The coffee. Just coffee. Not a thing.

The questions. How does it feel. I'm interested in you. The careful attentiveness that you had believed, and had begun to rely on, and had — you had started to—

You walked to your locker. You opened it. You put away your chemistry things with complete, methodical precision, because the alternative was something you were not going to do in a school corridor.

Then you took out your phone and texted Soo-Yeon: are you still in the building

⊹

Soo-Yeon found you in the east bathroom, which was the least-used bathroom in the building and therefore where you went when you needed to exist privately.

You were not crying. You were very specifically not crying. You were standing at the sink looking at your own face in the mirror with the expression of someone who had received information that required processing.

Soo-Yeon came in, took one look at your face, and said "What happened" in the voice she used for genuine emergencies.

You told her. Cleanly, factually, in order.

She was quiet for the full recounting. When you finished, she said: "You're sure."

"The conversation was sufficiently clear."

"That could have been—"

"Soo-Yeon."

She closed her mouth.

"Someone bet him," you said, "that he could get the top student to go on a date with him. He started coming to the library. He was — he was strategic. All of it."

"You don't know that all of it was—"

"I know that it started as a bet." Your voice stayed level. "Everything else was built on that foundation. Whether things shifted later doesn't—" You stopped. "It doesn't matter if things shifted. The beginning was a lie."

"He might have been going to tell you."

"Maybe."

"People do that. They start something one way and then realize—"

"I know people do that," you said, more sharply than you intended. "I know it's possible. But knowing it's possible and — being fine with it are different things."

Soo-Yeon was quiet.

"I trusted him," you said, and your voice stayed level because you were going to keep it level, you were not going to do anything in this bathroom except process this as a fact and decide what to do next. "I don't trust people easily. He knew that. He asked me why I didn't go to parties and I told him and he — he used that trust as part of the approach."

"You don't know that he—"

"I know that the approach was designed to build trust." You looked at your reflection. "Whether he meant it later is separate from what it was at the start."

Soo-Yeon put her hand on your back and you let her.

"What are you going to do?" she asked quietly.

"I'm going to go home," you said. "I'm going to finish my Columbia essay. I'm going to submit my applications. And on Tuesday, if he comes to the library, I'm going to—"

You stopped.

"I don't know," you said.

That was the truest thing you'd said.

Chapter 16 — Tuesday

He came.

Of course he came. He arrived at 2:58, before you, and had his calculus out and his water bottle in the upper right corner. Business as usual. He looked up when you sat down.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," you said.

Your voice, apparently, gave something away, because he went still.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fine." You opened your laptop. "I have a lot to get through today."

A pause. "Okay."

You worked. Or you appeared to work. The screen in front of you held your chemistry notes but you were reading the same paragraph four times without retaining it, which had never happened to you in the context of studying and which you found additionally, specifically infuriating.

At 3:15 he said, quietly, "Something's wrong."

"I told you I was fine."

"I know what you told me. I also know the difference between you working and you—" He paused. "I know the difference."

You looked up. He was watching you, and his face was the open, attentive face he turned on you when he was paying real attention, the face you had spent two and a half months learning to trust.

It made something in your chest do something very specific and not good.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

"Yes."

"And will you tell me the truth."

A beat. Something shifted in his expression, something small and fast, and you filed it away.

"Yes," he said.

"Was there a bet," you said.

The silence was its own answer. You watched it happen — watched the thing in his face that moved when you said it, watched the moment he understood what you knew.

"Yes," he said.

One word. Quiet. Honest.

You had expected him to try to explain immediately, or deflect, or find a way to soften it. He just — acknowledged it, and sat there, and let you have the moment.

"When did it start," you said.

"The same week I came to the library. The end of September."

"What were the terms."

"Get you to agree to one date within six weeks."

"And the six weeks—"

"Ended in early November."

"So you didn't complete it."

"No."

"Why not?"

He looked at you. "Because somewhere in October I stopped caring about the bet."

"And yet you didn't tell me."

A pause. "No. I didn't."

"Why not."

He was quiet for a moment, and you waited, because you had asked for the truth and he was, at least, giving you the shape of it.

"Because I was trying to find the right time," he said. "And because I was afraid. And because — I knew what it would do, when you found out. And I wanted more time." He looked at the table and then back at you. "Which was selfish. I know that."

"Yes," you said. "It was."

The library around you was doing its usual Tuesday afternoon thing. People at other tables. The sound of the ventilation system. The afternoon light.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I know."

"I don't just mean — I know that's not enough. I know sorry is what you say and it doesn't fix anything and—"

"James." Your voice was even. "I know you're sorry. I know it's not enough." You looked at him steadily. "The thing that you may not understand is what you're actually apologizing for."

He waited.

"You're not just apologizing for starting with a bet," you said. "You're apologizing for using someone who trusted you as the subject of a challenge. Who doesn't trust people easily, who you knew didn't trust people easily, and you used that as an approach vector." Your voice stayed level through the whole thing, which cost you more than it looked like. "I told you things. Personal things. And the beginning of that was a bet."

"I know," he said. The words were barely above a whisper.

"The question of whether it changed for you later doesn't make the beginning different."

"I know."

You closed your laptop. You gathered your things with complete precision, which was harder than usual because your hands wanted to do something they were not going to do.

"I need time," you said.

"Okay."

"I don't know how long."

"Okay."

"Don't come to the library on Thursday."

A pause. "Okay," he said.

You stood. You picked up your bag.

"For what it's worth," he said, very quietly, "every part of it — from the first week — was real. The calculus questions were real. The conversations were real. Caring about what you wanted was real." His voice was steady but only just. "I know that's not the same as starting clean. I know it doesn't—" He stopped. "I know."

You walked out of the library.

You made it to the parking lot before you had to stop and breathe.

⊹

The week after was — academically productive, which was the kind of irony you'd have appreciated at a different time.

Without the Tuesday-Thursday library sessions to anchor the week, you went back to your original schedule, which was technically more efficient and felt like something was missing in a way that you found unacceptable and dealt with by working harder. You submitted the Columbia essay — the revised one, the good one, with the opening paragraph repositioned. You finished two other applications. You got a 97 on the chemistry lab practical.

Soo-Yeon did not ask you how you were doing. She sat next to you at lunch and talked about debate practice and occasionally squeezed your arm and let you lead.

Elliot, who had absorbed all of this through some quiet osmosis, started leaving small things in your locker — a particularly good pen when he borrowed one of yours, a printout of an interesting article about environmental chemistry. He didn't explain any of them. He didn't need to.

You thought about James more than you wanted to.

Not constantly — you were too structured for constant. But in the margins of things. In the pause between finishing one problem and starting the next. In the morning when you checked the weather. In the afternoon light at the library table, which was now table four with one chair.

You thought about the optimization problem. How he'd worked through it himself after you'd asked the right questions. The real laugh. Good company. The November afternoon and the Columbia essay and the way he'd leaned in to understand what you needed rather than tell you what to do.

You also thought about: six weeks was the timeline. And get her to go on a date. And the fact that for two months, the person sitting across from you had been operating under a framework that defined you as a target rather than a person.

Both things were true. That was the problem.

⊹

He was a disaster.

Not externally — externally he was fine, practice was fine, grades were fine, the team was winning games, and to anyone who didn't know him well he was exactly the same James.

Marcus knew him well.

"You look terrible," Marcus said, which was not exactly true but was true enough.

"Thanks."

"You knew this would happen."

"I did."

"And you're not — handling it the way I expected."

"How did you expect me to handle it?"

Marcus shrugged. "Move on. Find someone else to be interested in. The James I know doesn't — dwell."

"The James you know hasn't done something like this before."

Marcus was quiet.

"I used her as a subject," James said. He was at the free throw line, but he hadn't shot in a few minutes. Just standing there. "She told me things — real things — and the beginning of that was because I had a reason to make her trust me that wasn't about her. It was about the bet."

"You changed."

"I changed, but she doesn't have proof of that. She just has what it was."

"James." Marcus sat down on the bench. "What do you want? Not what you think you deserve, not what you think is fair — what do you want?"

James shot. Made it.

"I want to do it right," he said. "I want to — I want to have a real chance. Where she knows everything and chooses anyway. Or doesn't." He caught the rebound. "Mostly I want her to be okay. If she's not okay because of me, I—"

"She's probably not great right now."

"I know."

"Give her time."

"She asked for time."

"Then you wait."

James shot again. Made it. "I've never been good at waiting."

"I know." Marcus almost smiled. "But she's worth it."

James lowered the ball.

"Yeah," he said. "She really is."

⊹

Fourteen days after you walked out of the library, James appeared at the entrance to the east corridor while you were at your locker.

He didn't approach. He stood at the end of the corridor, and when you looked up from your bag, he met your eyes, and then he looked at the floor between you like he was counting the tiles.

Then he looked back up.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked. Not coming closer. Asking from a distance.

You closed your locker. "Yes."

He walked over. Stopped a reasonable distance away, which you noted — the care he was taking with space, with not presuming anything.

"Not about everything," he said. "I don't — I know you're not ready for everything, and I know I don't get to decide when ready is. I just—" He exhaled. "I want you to know. That I've been thinking about what I actually did, not just the surface of it. Not just the bet."

"Okay," you said.

"I made you into a goal," he said. "And the thing about goals is they're about the person setting them, not the goal itself. You were — you were never just a goal to me, not really, but that was the frame I set up and I couldn't — I let it be the frame when I should have broken it weeks earlier."

"Why didn't you break it?"

"Because I was afraid that if I told you, you'd leave. And by the time I was sure you would leave—" His voice was even but only just. "I was already—" He stopped.

"Already what?"

"Gone," he said simply. "Already completely in it. And I didn't know how to—" He stopped again. Regrouped. "There's no good reason. I should have told you. I chose not to because I was protecting something that wasn't mine to protect."

You were quiet.

"I'm not asking for anything," he said. "I just wanted you to know that I understand what I actually did. Not just the bet part. The trust part." He met your eyes. "You trusted me, and I let that be built on something rotten at the base, and I could have fixed that and I didn't."

The corridor was quiet. Somewhere down the hall a door opened and closed.

"I appreciate that," you said, finally.

"Okay."

"I'm still not—" You stopped. "I still need time."

"I know." He took a step back. "I just wanted you to have that. The full thing. Not because I think it changes it, but because you deserve to know that I know."

He turned to go.

"James," you said.

He stopped.

You thought about what you wanted to say. You had several true things available and you chose the truest.

"Things shifting — later — does matter," you said. "It's not nothing."

He was very still.

"I'm not saying it erases anything," you said. "I'm saying it's not nothing."

He turned back, and his face was doing something careful and unguarded and entirely, terribly honest.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," you said.

He walked away. You stood at your locker for a moment, then went to class.

Chapter 20 — Soo-Yeon's Opinion

"He apologized properly," Soo-Yeon said.

"I know."

"Not just 'sorry,' but the actual — understanding what he did."

"I know."

"Which is genuinely rare."

"I'm aware." You were eating lunch. Attempting to. Your appetite had been irregular for two weeks, which was irritating, because your body was being theatrical.

"Can I say what I think?" Soo-Yeon asked.

"You're going to anyway."

"I think," Soo-Yeon said, "that you're not angry anymore. I think you were angry and now you're just—" she searched for the word— "sad. Which is different."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"No, but the angry part and the sad part need different things." She poked at her lunch. "The angry part needed distance and acknowledgment and he gave you that. The sad part needs — to decide whether you believe the rest of it."

"The rest of what."

"That he meant it. That the shift was real." She looked at you. "Do you believe that?"

You thought about it. "I don't have evidence either way."

"You have two and a half months of evidence."

"Two and a half months that started with a bet."

"Two and a half months of someone learning your coffee order and sitting with you through Columbia essays and asking how things feel instead of how they work." Soo-Yeon's voice was gentle. "You can't unknow those things just because the start was bad."

"He had reasons to do all of those things."

"He had reasons and motivations and those are different. People do things for complicated mixtures of both." She met your eyes. "What's your gut?"

You put your fork down. Outside the cafeteria windows, November was doing the thing where the trees were almost bare and the sky was a specific shade of grey that should have been bleak but wasn't quite.

"My gut," you said, "is that something real happened. Between week two and week ten. Something real happened and it came from him and it was not—" You stopped. "It was not strategic."

"Yeah," Soo-Yeon said quietly.

"That doesn't mean—"

"No."

"I don't know what to do with it."

"You don't have to know yet." She picked up her chopsticks. "But maybe that's the place to start. Not 'can I trust him,' which you can't know right now, but — 'do I believe the real thing was real.' And it sounds like you do."

You were quiet.

"He's not coming to the library," you said.

"I noticed."

"He hasn't pushed. Hasn't tried to—" You stopped. "He's just waited."

"Hm," Soo-Yeon said, which was the sound she made when something confirmed a theory.

"Don't 'hm' me."

"I'm just sitting here eating," she said, entirely unconvincingly.

⊹

You left a note on Tuesday.

Not a note, exactly — you slid a piece of paper under James's AP Calculus textbook, which had been left in the library over the weekend because he sometimes stored things in his locker there when he stayed late, and you knew because you'd seen him do it once and had catalogued the information without meaning to.

The note had four words: Thursday. If you want.

On Thursday he was there when you arrived.

He looked up when you sat down.

"Hi," he said, and his voice was careful in a way you hadn't heard from him before.

"Hello," you said.

You got out your laptop and your highlighters and your water bottle, upper left corner. He had his textbook and his water bottle and his notebook. You both sat there, not studying yet, in the specific charged stillness of something that had not resolved but was beginning to find its shape.

"I don't know how this works," you said, eventually.

"Me neither." He looked at his hands for a moment, then at you. "Probably we just — keep doing what we were doing. And see if it can be different now that you know."

"Different how?"

"Honest," he said. "From the beginning — I know we can't have the beginning back, but from here. Honest."

"I don't know if I can trust you the way I was starting to."

"That's fair."

"Not yet."

He caught the qualifier. "Okay."

"I'm not promising anything," you said. "I'm not — I'm not here because I've decided it's fine and we can go back."

"I know."

"I'm here because—" You thought about what Soo-Yeon had said. Do you believe the real thing was real. "Because I believe some things were real. And I think—" The honest thing. The specific true thing. "I would rather have the chance to find out than not."

He was looking at you with an expression that was careful and open and very — him. The him you'd spent two and a half months getting to know, the one underneath the captain's composure, the one that asked how things felt and brought two cups of coffee and sat in library silences without needing to fill them.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," you said.

You opened your laptop. He opened his textbook.

The library afternoon light came through the window.

You studied.

⊹

It was slower, the second time.

Not slower as in less — slower as in more deliberate. More careful. He did not assume anything; he asked. He did not push timelines; he waited. And you, for your part, allowed yourself to notice things again, without the distance you'd been keeping.

You noticed that he still laughed the real laugh more often than the social one, around you. That he'd started reading something that wasn't a textbook — a collection of essays, which you saw him reading once when he thought you were focused on your work, and which he put away when he noticed you noticing without any embarrassment. That he was still, somehow, good at silence.

You noticed that being around him still made the week feel differently organized. Not worse-organized — just differently. Like the library had a different geography when he was in it.

A week passed. Then another.

In late November, on a Thursday, it was very cold and the library heaters were struggling, and at some point he slid his jacket across the table to you without comment because you'd been pulling your sleeves down.

You looked at it. Looked at him.

"I run warm," he said, which was probably true and was also not the full answer.

You put on the jacket.

It was too big. It was warm. It smelled like him in a way you acknowledged and then put in the category of information to be filed and not acted on immediately.

"Thank you," you said.

"Mm," he said, and went back to his work, and the tips of his ears were slightly pink, and you also filed that.

⊹

The applications were in.

All seven of them, submitted in chronological order of deadline, thoroughly proofread, with all supplemental materials attached and confirmed. You had done everything correctly. Now you waited, which was the part of every process you found most genuinely difficult, because waiting was not a skill so much as an endurance test.

December arrived, and with it the last two weeks before winter break, and the specific festive chaos of a school that went in hard for seasonal decorating. Linfield had a winter showcase — music, art, drama — on the second Friday of December, and you were performing. Piano. One piece, seven minutes, the Chopin ballade you'd been working on since September.

You had not told James about this.

He found out from Elliot, apparently, which you learned when he appeared at table four on a Thursday with a look that was a very specific mixture of pleased and uncertain.

"You're performing at the showcase," he said.

"You know Elliot?"

"He's in my bio lecture. He mentioned it. Congratulations — or break a leg, whichever is correct."

"Both work." You looked at him. "You heard it from Elliot."

"Is that a problem?"

"No." You considered. "He doesn't usually volunteer information about me."

"He was talking about it generally. The showcase. I asked if you'd be performing." He met your eyes. "I was curious."

"Because of the piano," you said. "From what I told you."

"Yes."

You looked down at your work. Up again. "If you wanted to come," you said, carefully, "it's open to the public."

A pause. "Yeah?"

"Yes." You looked at your notes. "It's nothing particularly — I'm one performance out of about fifteen."

"I'd like to come," he said.

You nodded and went back to work.

He went back to work.

Something in the library felt different. Warmer. Something in the vicinity of your chest that you had been very carefully managing for the past month went quiet and settled in a way that was terrifying and — fine. It was fine. It was allowed to be fine.

⊹

He was in the second row.

You saw him before you went backstage — in the auditorium, finding a seat, and Marcus was with him, which you hadn't expected, and Marcus waved when he saw you looking, which you had also not expected.

The showcase was an hour of student performances. You were fourth. You sat backstage in the ordered stillness of pre-performance focus, going through the piece in your head, feeling your hands. You'd played this ballade hundreds of times. You knew every interval, every dynamic shift, every place where the tempo had to breathe.

You went out.

The auditorium lights were the specific warm kind that made the audience a comfortable blur. You sat at the piano. Put your hands in position.

You played.

Seven minutes. The Chopin ballade, the first one in G minor, which starts quietly and builds and builds until it's something almost violent in its emotion, and then resolves into something devastatingly simple. You had played it well before. That night, for reasons you refused to examine in real time, you played it better than you had ever played it.

When you finished, the applause came up. You stood and bowed, the way you'd been taught to. Went backstage.

You found James afterward, in the crowd outside the auditorium.

He looked at you, and you did not know what your face was doing, but whatever it was, something in his expression went very quiet and very certain.

"That was—" he started, and then stopped, like the usual words weren't right.

"I know," you said.

"No, I mean — I knew you were good. I didn't know it was—" He stopped again. "I didn't know it could sound like that."

"Like what."

He searched for it. "Like something you needed to say that didn't have words."

You stood in the auditorium lobby, people moving around you, and you looked at him, and you thought about all the true things and the complicated things and the things that were still rebuilding and the things that had never really come undone.

"Thank you for coming," you said.

"Thank you for playing," he said.

Marcus appeared behind him. "Hi," he said to you, with none of the awkwardness you might have expected. "I'm Marcus. We've never officially — I owe you an apology, actually."

You looked at him. "For."

"The bet was my idea," Marcus said, simply. "I'm the one who brought it up in the locker room. What happened after is on James, but the starting point is on me." He met your eyes. "I'm sorry."

You absorbed this. "Thank you," you said, eventually. "For saying that."

"She's terrifying," Marcus said to James, admiringly.

"I know," James said.

"It's a compliment," Marcus told you.

"I took it as one," you said.

⊹

Winter break was fourteen days, the longest unstructured stretch of time in your school year, which you used with precise efficiency: college research, additional piano practice, a project for your environmental chemistry independent study, two novels you'd been meaning to read, and family time in the proper proportions.

You also texted James five times.

Not all at once. Not intentionally, as a pattern. The first was a link to an article about applied calculus in sports analytics, because you'd thought of him while reading it, and the linking felt like a natural thing to do, which you only realized after you'd already sent it. He replied with three question marks (surprised) and then: this is actually fascinating, where did you find this.

That led to a forty-minute conversation about probability and sports performance and the degree to which statistics could predict individual human behavior, which was also a conversation about agency and free will, which was a conversation you did not expect to be having during winter break with anyone, let alone him, and which you found — genuinely, uncomplicatedly — good.

The second text was a photo of a chemistry problem you were working on that had taken an unexpected turn, with the note: I think I found an error in the textbook.

He replied: this is the most on-brand thing you have ever sent me and then: but also that does look like an error, have you emailed the professor?

(You had. She confirmed the error. It was deeply satisfying.)

The third was: how's your sister's marine biology interest going

He replied: she watched three different documentaries yesterday and quizzed me on deep sea creatures. I know what an anglerfish is now.

The fourth was a song. Not an explanation, just a Chopin piece you'd recorded yourself playing on a low-quality phone camera, sent at 11pm on a quiet Tuesday.

He didn't reply until the next morning: I listened to this three times. I've been thinking about what you said — that things sound like what you need to say without words. That's what this sounds like.

The fifth was, after thinking about it for a while: I think I'm ready to try. Actually try. If you still want to.

He replied in under two minutes: yes. very much yes.

⊹

January was cold and white and felt, in the way of new things, like a page that hadn't been written on yet.

He picked you up on a Saturday. Actual Saturday, actual plan, actual date — terms acknowledged by both parties. He'd asked properly, on a Thursday in the library, with the specific care he'd been taking with everything since October: would you want to, I found something I thought you might like, but only if you want to, no pressure.

You'd said yes.

He took you to a science museum that had a special exhibition on molecular gastronomy and food chemistry, which was — genuinely perfect, in a way that made your chest do things you were now simply allowing to happen rather than cataloguing for later analysis.

"How did you know about this," you said, in the second room of the exhibit, looking at a display on the Maillard reaction.

"I Googled it," he said, entirely honestly. "I looked for things that would be interesting to you specifically. Not in a—" He paused. "Not calculated. Just — I wanted to get it right."

"You did," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

He smiled, and it was the real one, and you turned back to the Maillard reaction because it was easier to look at chemistry than at James Zhao Yufan's real smile when it was directed at you.

You spent four hours in the museum. You ate at a small restaurant nearby — Japanese, his suggestion, and he'd asked if you had preferences first, which was also the kind of thing you had noticed and were no longer pretending not to notice. The conversation was — easy. It had always been easy, which you now understood as neither accidental nor meaningless.

Walking back to the car, there was a moment on the sidewalk where the street light was doing something specific and golden and his shoulder was near yours and he said, very quietly: "I know this is new territory."

"Yes," you said.

"I'm going to keep doing it right," he said. "Not because it's strategic. Because you're—" He stopped. Rephrased. "Because you're worth doing right. Because I want to."

"I know," you said.

"Yeah?"

"I'm starting to," you said, which was the most honest thing.

He looked at you for a moment in the streetlight. Not moving. Not pushing.

Then, carefully, he offered his hand.

You looked at it. Looked at him.

You took it.

His hand was warm, larger than yours, and he held without squeezing, light and present.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay," he said.

You walked to the car.

⊹

February was the month the college decisions started coming.

Early ones first. You got into one of your targets — a good school, a school you'd be happy at, with a partial scholarship — and you told your parents and Soo-Yeon and Elliot, and then you texted James, who replied: I am so unsurprised. Congratulations. Deserved completely.

Then: are we celebrating

You: yes. Library. Tomorrow.

Him: I was thinking something slightly more celebratory than the library

You: the library is where everything good has happened

A pause.

Him: I can't argue with that.

He brought you flowers to the library. Not a large, performative bouquet — a small bunch of white ranunculus, purchased from the farmers market, which you knew because he'd mentioned the farmers market once in a conversation about what he did on Sunday mornings. He put them on the table without announcement, and you looked at them, and then at him, and something in you that had been carefully managing itself for months went warm and quiet and certain.

"Thank you," you said.

"Mm," he said.

You studied. The flowers sat on the table between you, white and small and specific.

In the second week of February, you got into your second target. In the third week, two rejections came, which stung in the particular way of things you'd worked hard for and hadn't gotten, and he sat across from you in the library while you processed them, not saying anything helpful — not saying anything at all, just present, which was somehow exactly what you needed.

On the last Friday of February, Soo-Yeon texted during calculus: have you seen the corridor board

You texted back: no why

She replied with a photo.

The corridor board — the main honor board outside the principal's office — had the semester academic rankings. Your name was at the top, as usual.

Below it, significantly, but present: James Zhao Yufan, ranked fourteenth overall, up from thirty-first at the end of first semester.

You looked at the photo for a long moment.

You texted him: fourteenth

He replied after a minute: good study partner

You: adjacent studier

Him: adjacent studier

You smiled at your phone in the middle of calculus, which was noted by two people near you and which you did not care about at all.

⊹

March was a Thursday and the cherry tree outside the library window was starting to have buds, which you'd mentioned in passing and which James had apparently noted, because the following Thursday he'd arrived first and positioned his things to the side so you'd have the direct window view.

You stood in the doorway for a moment looking at this.

Then you sat down, in the slightly different position, and the cherry tree was right there, and you said nothing, and he said nothing, and you both studied.

At 4:15 he said: "I've been thinking about something."

"What."

"The bet," he said, in the specific tone of something that had been decided about and had to be said. "I've been thinking about how to — not fix it, that's not possible. But — I want to do something."

"What do you mean."

"I want to apologize to you again," he said. "Not because the first time wasn't real, but because I've had more time to understand exactly what it was. What I actually—" He stopped, restarted. "I used you as a bet because I was confident and careless and I thought you would be a challenge in the interesting way rather than a person in the real way. And that's — that was wrong in a specific way that I don't know if I explained clearly enough."

You looked at him. "You explained it."

"I want to say it again." He met your eyes. "I am sorry for treating you as a goal before I knew you. I'm sorry for not telling you when I should have. I'm sorry that you found out the way you did, in a corridor, from someone else's conversation. That was—" He stopped. "You deserved better than that."

"I did," you said.

"I know."

The library was quiet. The cherry tree buds were very small and green outside the window.

"And I want to say," he said, "that everything after week two — when I was starting to actually understand who you were — that was real. That is real. The—" He stopped, and for the first time you saw him actually uncertain, actually unsure of the words. "What I feel is real. It's been real for a long time. I didn't do anything with it correctly, but it was never fake."

You looked at him across the table. The same table. The table that had been, somehow, the geography of the past six months of your life.

"I know," you said.

"Yeah?"

"I've known that for a while," you said. "I was just — I needed to know that you knew."

Something in his face shifted — not relief, exactly, but something like coming to rest.

"I know," he said. "I know exactly."

You looked at each other across the table in the afternoon light. The cherry tree outside was very still. Your water bottle was in the upper left corner and his was in the upper right corner, which was where they'd been since October, which was a small and specific thing that you'd stopped pretending didn't mean anything.

"James," you said.

"Yeah."

"Come here," you said.

He stood from his chair and came around the table, and you turned in your seat to face him, and you looked up at him, and he looked down at you with an expression that was — open, and careful, and completely unguarded.

"I'm not going to pretend this is easy," you said.

"I know."

"Trust takes time."

"I know. I'll take the time."

"And I'm not — I don't know exactly what this is yet."

"That's fine." His voice was quiet. "We can not know together."

You stood up.

He was close. The library corner, the afternoon light, the cherry tree outside the window.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay," he said.

He leaned in slowly, with the same care he'd brought to everything since November, and you let him, and it was — not what you expected, which was that it was soft and quiet and very certain. His hands came up to your face, carefully, and you had your hands on the lapels of his jacket, which you'd learned by now was always warm, and the kiss lasted exactly long enough for something in your chest to go completely still and then completely full.

When you broke apart, he was looking at you with an expression that was trying to be composed and failing slightly.

"Hi," he said, which was objectively not the cleverest thing he'd ever said.

"Hello," you said, which was yours.

He made a sound that was between a laugh and an exhale. His forehead tipped to meet yours.

"Okay," you said again.

"Okay," he said.

The cherry tree outside had buds. Spring was coming. You had decisions to make and a future to find and approximately six months of library afternoons behind you and whatever was ahead, which was unclear and — allowed to be unclear.

You sat back down. He came back to his chair. The study session resumed.

But his foot found yours under the table, a light, accidental-or-not pressure, and neither of you moved away from it, and the afternoon light did its thing through the window, and the cherry tree budded, and you worked.

JUHOON:

exists

me:

#cortis #relatable #humor #cortis juhoon

eomjju

chill juhoon im easy ✌🏻😭

he looks so good

opalfame

ugh, my bias looks so good!!

eomagahd

LUCKY SHOT ☘︎ EOM SEONGHYEON

☘︎ synopsis: After accidentally kicking a football straight into your face, Seonghyeon is prepared to spend the rest of the week apologizing. You meanwhile, discovered that being mildly injured comes with some surprisingly enjoyable perks.

☘︎ genre: classmate!seonghyeon x classmate!reader, highschool!au, SLOWBURN.., fluff, teasing, kissing, mutual pining, footballplayer!seonghyeon, shy!reader, jealousy, lots of yearning, a lil angst in there, protective!seonghyeon, shy girl & popular guy or wtv, some cringeworthy scenes, introverted reader x extroverted? seonghyeon

☘︎ wc: 17,6k MASTERLIST

If anyone asked later, you would insist you saw the football coming.

You didn’t.

Not until it was already flying toward you at an alarming speed.

Then- well. Getting hit in the face tends to interrupt a person’s train of thought.

enhypen is 7! i don't care what you all say!!

#opalyapping!

YOU LOOK LIKE A LOVE SONG

MARTIN EDWARDS┆ quiet garage band bassist!𝒎ar𝘁͟in, ─────⠀artsy yearbook photographer!f!reader 𓂅 𝑤.𝑐: +3.5k ꒰ ⌗ coming of age, slice of life, soft angst, first love, fluff ꒱ ꒰ bias in cortis ─── ★ — _ juhoon _ ୭˚_ ᵎᵎ

───── Martin isn't the kind of person people notice immediately. He's always in the background. Headphones around his neck, hands shoved in his pockets, quietly following his friends through crowded hallways. He doesn't talk much, doesn't smile often, and definitely doesn't believe in things like soulmates. Then you accidentally end up in one of his photographs. And then another. And another. Somewhere between late-night yearbook deadlines, empty classrooms after school, and bus rides home beneath flickering streetlights, Martin realizes he's started looking for you in every room he enters. The problem? He's never been good at saying what he feels. And you're starting to think he'll never say anything at all.

There were loud people in the world, and then there was Martin Edwards.

Martin was the kind of boy who existed in the negative space of every crowded room. If the high school cafeteria was a frantic, oversaturated photograph, Martin was the blurred figure in the background—perpetually leaning against a locker, a pair of scratched wired headphones draped loosely around his neck, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a perpetually worn olive-green jacket. He didn't talk much. He didn't raise his hand in class. He seemed entirely content to let the world spin wildly out of control around him without ever participating in the chaos.

You, on the other hand, spent your life trying to capture that chaos.

As the head photographer for the school yearbook, your entire existence revolved around noticing things. You carried your trusty DSLR like an extra appendage, a heavy silver-and-black anchor hanging around your neck. You lived for the perfect lighting, the candid smiles, the sharp focus falling seamlessly onto your subjects. You knew how to make people shine.

But you rarely pointed your lens at Martin. What was the point? He was a shadow. A quiet, headphone-wearing ghost.

Until the late October afternoon Mr. Harrison, the yearbook advisor, handed you a slip of paper with a messy address scribbled on it.

"Local music scene spread," Mr. Harrison had said, tapping the paper. "Leo's taking quotes, but we need raw, atmospheric photos. Go to this garage on Elm Street after school. There's a student band practicing. Static Feedback, or something like that. Get some action shots."

Which is how you ended up standing in the driveway of a drafty, damp suburban garage at 5:00 PM on a Tuesday, your camera raised to your eye, deafened by the sound of amateur rock.

The band wasn't terrible, but they were definitely loud. The lead singer, a chaotic junior named Toby, kept trying to do mic-stand tricks. The drummer was beating the absolute life out of the snare.

And then, tucked away in the back corner of the garage, half-hidden by a stacks of rusty amps, was Martin.

You lowered your camera for a fraction of a second, blinking. Martin Edwards. You had never seen him look so... anchored. He was holding a battered Fender bass, his long fingers moving over the thick strings with an easy, rhythmic grace. His eyes were closed, his head nodding to a beat entirely his own, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. He wasn't performing for an audience. He was just feeling the music in the dark.

You raised your camera. Adjusted the aperture. Let the background blur into shadow, keeping the sharp focus entirely on the line of his jaw and the relaxed curve of his shoulders.

Click.

The shutter was drowned out by a crashing cymbal, but Martin's eyes snapped open. He looked straight across the cluttered garage, right down the barrel of your lens. He didn't flinch. He didn't look away, nor did he smile. He just stared at you, his dark eyes unreadable, the low hum of the bass vibrating through the concrete floor and rising up through the soles of your sneakers.

You lowered the camera slowly, your cheeks suddenly burning in the crisp autumn air. You offered a small, awkward wave.

Martin stared for a second longer. Then, very faintly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He gave you a single, subtle nod before looking back down at his strings.

That was the exact moment the tectonic plates of your high school existence shifted.

You didn't expect to see him an hour later at the bus stop.

The sky had already bruised into a deep, heavy purple, the streetlights flickering on with an electrical buzz. You were sitting on the cold metal bench, scrolling through the digital viewfinder of your camera, checking the exposure on the garage shots. You were so absorbed in the glowing screen that you didn't hear the footsteps approaching until the bench shifted with extra weight.

You jumped slightly, nearly dropping your camera.

Martin was sitting on the far end of the bench. He had a thick scarf pulled up to his chin, his breath pluming in the cold air.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that sounded like it hadn't been used much today. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," you lied smoothly, clutching your camera to your chest. "Just... focused. Yearbook stuff."

He hummed, a noncommittal sound, and leaned his head back against the glass of the bus shelter. "Did you get what you needed?"

"Yeah. The lighting in that garage is a nightmare, but I think I got a few salvageable shots of Toby attempting a high kick."

A soft, genuine huff of laughter escaped Martin's chest. "He almost broke his ankle doing that yesterday."

You smiled, relaxing a little. The silence that settled between you wasn't heavy or awkward like it usually was with strangers. It was comfortable. Quiet. Like the ambient tape hiss before a song begins.

As you reached into your bag to swap out a lens cap, you noticed movement out of the corner of your eye. Martin dug into his oversized jacket pocket and pulled out a small, rectangular object. Not a phone. An old, cheap 35mm point-and-shoot film camera. The plasticky kind you could buy at a pharmacy in the nineties.

He didn't bring it to his eye. He just held it in his lap, his thumb resting gently on the top button.

"You take pictures?" you asked, genuinely surprised.

Martin looked down at the plastic brick in his hands, turning it over. "Not really. Not like you. I don't know anything about f-stops or ISOs."

"Then why the film camera?"

He shrugged, dark eyes looking out at the empty street. "I have a bad memory. I just... like to keep proof that things happened. Even if the photos turn out terrible."

Before you could respond, a horn blared in the distance. The 74 bus was turning the corner, its headlights cutting through the descending evening fog. You stood up, hoisting your heavy bag onto your shoulder. Martin stood too.

As you stepped toward the curb, a gust of wind blew a stray leaf into your face. You batted it away with a laugh, shaking your head, your hair wildly out of place.

Click. Whirrrrrrr.

You spun around. Martin was standing three feet away, lowering the little plastic camera. The aggressive, sudden flash had temporarily burned a purple dot into your vision.

"Did you just take a picture of me?" you asked, blinking rapidly.

Martin rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking intensely interested in the pavement. A violent shade of red crept up the back of his ears. "I was trying to take a picture of the streetlamp," he muttered quickly, though you both knew his lens was pointed directly at you. "You stepped into the frame."

"Right," you teased gently, stepping onto the bus as the doors hissed open. "Sure, Martin."

He followed you on, refusing to meet your eyes, but you didn't miss the way he carefully tucked the camera back into his coat pocket, as if it was something precious.

After that, Martin became a regular fixture in your peripheral vision. And then, slowly, he moved to the foreground.

During the chaotic lunch hours, he started abandoning his usual spot by the lockers to sit at the edge of your table, usually while you were hunched over contact sheets with a red marker. He never demanded your attention. He would just slide into the seat across from you, unpack a sandwich, put one earbud in, and let you work.

But it wasn't just lunch. As the winter months dragged on and the yearbook timeline grew tighter, you found yourself staying at school until six o'clock on most weekdays. The computer lab was essentially yours—a quiet refuge of humming hard drives and sprawling layout pages.

One Tuesday in December, the door to the lab creaked open. You looked up from your screen, rubbing your tired eyes, to see Martin standing in the doorway holding two paper cups from the cheap coffee machine in the teachers' lounge.

"Library was too loud," he said simply, walking over and setting a cup next to your mousepad.

"The library is dead silent at five in the afternoon, Martin."

He gave a tiny, noncommittal shrug. "Fluorescent lights were humming too loud." He pulled a chair out from the desk beside yours, sat down, and pulled a battered paperback from his bag.

He stayed for two hours. He didn't read past chapter three. Mostly, he just watched you work, answering whatever random, sleepy questions you threw at him. You learned he hated the smell of lavender but loved the smell of ozone before a storm. You learned his bass was named 'Siren' because he bought it at a pawn shop next to a fire station. You learned he didn't like talking about his future because it felt too big to fit in his mouth.

And every now and then, when you were too tired to notice, you'd hear the soft, plasticky whir of a film winding.

"Oops," he would say smoothly, looking at the ceiling. "Bumped the button."

"You're wasting film on me staring at a monitor," you pointed out one evening, your head resting on your desk in defeat against a crashing Adobe file.

"Maybe," he replied softly.

The problem with a slow burn is that you don't realize you're on fire until the smoke chokes you. By January, you were entirely, hopelessly wrapped around Martin Edwards' quiet gravity. You looked for his olive-green jacket in every hallway. You recognized the specific, heavy thud of his boots on the linoleum. When he wasn't sitting across from you in the computer lab, the room felt agonizingly large and empty.

But Martin was a locked vault. He shared his time, his coffee, and his quiet warmth, but he rarely shared his feelings. He was a master of deflection, retreating behind a wall of mumbled half-sentences or an indifferent shrug whenever things bordered on emotional.

You started to agonize over it. Did he like you? Or were you just the most convenient shelter he could find from the noise of the rest of the school?

The breaking point arrived in late February.

It was a Friday night, and his band was playing a gig at a local all-ages venue downtown. Surprisingly, he had handed you a sticky, wrinkled flyer for it during lunch. You arrived with your camera, but for once, you left the lens cap on. You threw yourself into the crowd, jumping, singing, and completely losing yourself in the messy, jagged energy of the music.

Through the haze of colored stage lights, you kept looking at Martin. He was in his element, holding down the rhythm, looking effortlessly cool. And every time you caught his eye, he looked away first.

After the show, the air outside the venue was bitterly cold. Sleet was starting to fall, freezing onto the sidewalks. You found Martin loading his bass case into the back of Toby's dented minivan in the alleyway.

"You guys sounded incredible," you said, stepping into the dim yellow light of the alley.

Martin closed the trunk and turned to you. He looked exhausted, his hair damp with sweat, his jacket zipped up tight against the freezing rain. "You came."

"You invited me."

"I didn't think you'd actually show up," he said, his voice flat. He kicked a stray piece of gravel with the toe of his boot. "You have your big deadline on Monday. I figured you'd be editing."

"I took a break," you said, stepping a little closer. The cold was biting through your thin sweater, but you barely felt it. "I wanted to be here."

Martin looked at you then. Really looked at you. There was something heavy and strained in his dark eyes, a tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. It looked like he was fighting a war in his own head, trying to drag a sentence across his vocal cords.

"Martin?" you prompted softly.

He swallowed hard. "You're freezing," he muttered, suddenly breaking eye contact. He reached forward, his hands hovering for a split second before brushing past your shoulders to pull the edges of your open coat closer together. The brief brush of his knuckles against your collarbone sent a shockwave straight through your chest.

Before you could lean into his touch, he stepped back, creating a frustrating chasm of space between you.

"Toby's waiting," Martin practically mumbled, turning his back to you. "I have to go. Text me when you get home so I know you didn't freeze."

He climbed into the van and slid the door shut before you could even say goodbye.

You stood in the alleyway as the van reversed and drove off, the sleet stinging your cheeks. Your chest ached with a hollow, frustrating sting. You were so tired of reading between the lines. You were starting to think that, beneath all the quiet moments and shared coffees, he was just never going to say anything at all.

Monday was the absolute final deadline for the yearbook to be sent to the publisher.

By 7:00 PM, the school was a tomb. Mr. Harrison had gone home an hour ago, leaving you to do the final page uploads and lock up the computer lab. You felt hollowed out, fueled entirely by stale vending machine pretzels and caffeine.

When the heavy wooden door to the lab creaked open, you didn't even look up. "If you're here to ask me for a favor, Toby, I swear I'm going to throw my monitor at your head."

"Not Toby," a rough voice said.

You froze. You looked over your shoulder. Martin was standing there, looking marginally more nervous than you had ever seen him. He awkwardly shifted his weight, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets.

"You're still here," he noted quietly.

"Final upload," you said, your voice tight. After the way he'd pulled away in the alley on Friday, you'd spent the entire weekend trying to convince yourself to pack up your feelings and move on. "Almost done."

Martin walked in slowly. He didn't sit in his usual chair. Instead, he stood beside your desk, watching the loading bar on the screen inch closer to 100%. The silence dragged on, agonizing and thick. You desperately wanted him to say something. To apologize, to explain, to do anything other than just exist next to you.

"Can I help you carry anything?" he finally asked.

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Unless you want to carry my soul out of this building, no. I just have my camera bag."

"I'll carry that, then."

"Martin, it's fine. I've got it."

"No, let me."

He reached across your desk to grab the heavy strap of your canvas camera bag. At the exact same time, you reached out to stop him. Your hands collided over the canvas.

His fingers were warm against yours. He didn't pull away this time.

In the sudden, arrested movement, the side pocket of his olive jacket caught on the sharp plastic edge of your desk tray. It snagged, ripping slightly, and the contents of his pocket spilled out across the floor.

A handful of guitar picks. A crumpled receipt.

And photos.

They fluttered down like autumn leaves, scattering across the grey institutional carpet.

You froze. You slowly stood up from your chair, your eyes tracking the glossy squares on the floor. Martin inhaled sharply and dropped to his knees, his face suddenly drained of color as he scrambled to gather them up with frantic, clumsy hands.

"Wait," you said, your voice breathless.

You knelt down before he could sweep them all away. You put your hand flat over one of the photos, stopping him. He froze, his breathing hitched, staring at your hand like it was a live wire.

You moved your hand away and picked up the photograph.

It was standard 4x6 print, developed at a drugstore. And it was a picture of you.

You were in the computer lab, illuminated only by the glow of the monitor, biting the cap of a pen while you stared intently at the screen.

Your heart began to thunder in your ears. You picked up another one. It was you at the bus stop, obscured slightly by the falling snow, laughing at something off-camera. You picked up a third. This one was blurry, taken hastily from the back of the garage during band practice. It was slightly out of focus, but your face was clear, partially hidden behind your camera lens, bathed in dim morning light.

There were at least a dozen of them. And in every single one, you looked... beautiful. Not in a posed, artificial way. But in a quiet, revered way. You saw yourself the way the photographer saw you.

"Martin..." you whispered, looking from the photos up to him.

He was still kneeling on the floor, his hands resting limply in his lap. He looked utterly terrified, his usual calm exterior fractured completely, leaving him looking raw and vulnerable in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

"I told you," he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper, entirely lacking its usual steady cadence. "I have a bad memory. I just... I like to keep proof that the good things happened."

You stared at him, the pieces finally slotting together. The accidental clicks. The bus rides. The silence. He wasn't indifferent. He was overwhelmed.

"You told me," you said, your voice trembling a little, "that you accidentally took those."

Martin laughed, a short, self-deprecating sound. He reached out and gently took the photo of you at the bus stop from your trembling fingers. "I don't know how to do this," he confessed, staring down at the picture. "I'm terrible with words. My brain freezes up. Toby can get up on a stage and yell poetry at a hundred people, but I can't even tell the girl I like that I like her without feeling like my chest is going to cave in."

He finally looked up at you, his dark eyes pleading. "I couldn't say it. So I just... kept looking at you. Trying to capture it. Because looking at you is the only time my brain goes quiet."

A profound, swelling warmth ballooned in your chest, crowding out every ounce of exhaustion and doubt from the last few months. You let out a shaky breath, feeling the prickle of tears in the corners of your eyes.

You reached out, gently wrapping your fingers around his wrist. "You're an idiot, Martin Edwards."

He winced slightly. "I know."

"But," you continued softly, sliding your hand down so your palm pressed against his, lacing your fingers together, "you're a decent photographer."

Martin looked down at your joined hands, exhaling a long, shuddering breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his lungs for six months. The tension melted out of his shoulders, replaced by a quiet, dawning relief.

A small dialogue box pinged on the computer above you—Upload Complete.

But neither of you looked at the screen. You were too busy looking at him.

"Can I..." Martin started, his voice rough but steadier now, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "Can I take one more?"

You smiled, your heart doing a wild, erratic drum solo against your ribs. "Right now? The lighting in here is terrible."

"I don't care about the lighting," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before returning to your eyes. "I just want to remember exactly what this looks like."

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you shifted closer, closing the distance between you on the floor of the empty lab. You reached up, your free hand tentatively brushing the stray lock of hair away from his forehead. He leaned into your touch instantly, his eyes fluttering shut.

"You don't need a camera for this one," you whispered.

When he opened his eyes, the terror was gone, replaced by a soft, luminous warmth. He let go of the photograph in his hand. It fluttered to the carpet as he reached up, cupping your face with gentle, hesitant hands.

His kiss was like everything else about him. Quiet, unhurried, and deeply profound. The world outside the computer lab—the humming lights, the cold wind, the empty classroom—vanished completely, narrowing down to the warmth of his hands and the deliberate, gentle pressure of his lips.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, a slow, brilliant smile broke across Martin's face. It was the rarest thing in the world, and you were the one who finally caught it.

"See?" you whispered, tapping his chest. "No film required."

He pulled you in again, his arms wrapping tightly around you, burying his face in your shoulder. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice finally sounding like he was exactly where he belonged. "No film required."

a lil' stuck. 𓂃 kim jennie

synopsis. One outfit gets stuck, a zipper breaks right before a performance. They’re forced into a tight space backstage fixing it, hands accidentally brushing, both pretending it’s normal. The stylist keeps interrupting, which makes everything worse because they can’t even process what’s happening between them.

content. nsfw (MDNI), smut, f!reader, fingering, jennie's a little desperate. 2.4k

✴ in queue. zen by kim jennie

The air backstage was thick with the scent of hairspray, fabric softener, and the quiet hum of pre-show nerves. You stood in the cramped wardrobe room, a narrow space barely wide enough for two people, surrounded by racks of sequined costumes and rolling garment bags. The muffled thump of bass from the stage seeped through the walls. Fifteen minutes until curtain call.

And Jennie's zipper was stuck.

"Fuck," she hissed, twisting her arm behind her back to reach the metal tab at the nape of her neck. The sound of it grinding against the teeth made you wince. She was wearing a black velvet bodysuit, cut deep at the back, the kind that required a second set of hands to close properly. The stylist had left five minutes ago to grab safety pins and a backup option from the main rack. That was five minutes too long.

"Let me." You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. This was part of the job. You were a dresser, a fixer, a handler of wardrobe crises. You'd done this a hundred times with other idols. But never with her.

Jennie turned, her dark eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before she lowered her gaze, turning her back to you. The exposed skin of her shoulders gleamed under the fluorescent light, a faint sheen of sweat from the dance warmup. You could see the delicate line of her spine, the way her waist curved in, the small dimples at the base of her back.

"Just—careful," she said, her voice a little tight. "It's really stuck."

"Yeah, I can see that." You stepped in close, close enough that your chest almost brushed her shoulder blades. The zipper tab was jammed halfway up, the fabric bunched around the metal teeth. You took the tab between your thumb and forefinger, tugging gently. It didn't budge. You tried pulling the fabric taut with your other hand, your knuckles grazing the warm skin of her back.

You felt her inhale sharply.

"Sorry," you murmured, adjusting your grip. You pulled again, harder this time, and the zipper gave a grinding screech but refused to move. The bodysuit shifted, the open gap exposing more of her spine, the curve of her lower back, the top of the black lace underwear peeking just above the waistband.

"Maybe we need to take it off and try from the bottom," you said, your mouth dry. That would mean completely undressing her. In this tiny room. With the door unlocked.

"Okay," Jennie said, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn't turn around. Her hands came up to cross over her chest, holding the fabric in place as you worked the zipper back down. But it was stuck both ways now—the tab wouldn't go down either.

"Shit." You bit your lip. "It's fully jammed. I think the fabric got caught in the mechanism. I'm going to have to work it loose."

"Just—do whatever you have to." She sounded almost breathless.

Your fingers found the small fold of velvet that was trapped in the zipper's teeth. It was delicate work, needing precision and focus. You leaned in closer, your forehead nearly touching the back of her head. Your left hand held the zipper body steady while your right index and thumb tried to coax the fabric free. Your knuckles brushed against her bare skin with every small movement. The faint scent of her perfume—something floral with a hint of sandalwood—mixed with the salt of her skin.

You were hyperaware of every detail: the way her shoulders tensed and released under your touch, the soft hitch of her breath when your finger accidentally slid along the edge of the zipper track, the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. You could see the goosebumps rising on her arms.

"Almost there," you whispered, more to yourself than to her. You managed to pull a tiny thread of velvet free. The zipper loosened by a millimeter. You tugged at it again, and this time it slid down an inch, revealing the small of her back, the top of her tailbone, the black lace of her panties more visible now.

"Fuck," she hissed again, but it wasn't a hiss of frustration this time. It was something else. Something raw.

Your hands froze. Every nerve in your body was alive.

"Jennie—"

The door burst open.

"Oh good, you haven't fixed it yet." The stylist—Mina, a whirlwind of energy and safety pins—bustled into the room, not even blinking at the situation. "I brought a backup, but we'll try this first." She shoved a small sewing kit into your free hand. "Pull the fabric out from the bottom. I'll hold the zipper teeth apart."

You stepped aside, your skin still tingling from the proximity. Mina took your place, her movements brisk and professional. She had Jennie turned around and was working at the zipper within seconds, muttering about cheap stitching and rushed deadlines.

Jennie caught your eye over Mina's shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked away immediately.

"It's fine," Mina said after a minute, yanking the zipper down with a decisive zzzzip. "There. Try it again. Gently."

She stepped back, already checking her phone. "I need to go to Stage B for the costume change signal. You got this?"

"Yeah," you said, your voice coming out steadier than you felt. "I got it."

Mina was gone before the door clicked shut. And you were alone with Jennie again.

Jennie turned her back to you, lifting her hair off her neck. The open zipper gaped down to the curve of her ass. The black lace panties were fully visible now, the fabric hugging her hips.

"Okay," you said, licking your lips. "I'll close it properly this time."

Your hands went to the zipper. It moved smoothly now, sliding up her spine. You took your time, watching the velvet close over her skin inch by inch. When you reached the top, you hooked the tiny clasp at the back of her neck.

"There," you said softly.

But you didn't pull your hands away. Your fingers lingered on the nape of her neck, just brushing the fine hairs there. She didn't pull away either. In fact, she leaned back slightly, pressing herself closer to you.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Your hand slid down, flattening against the velvet over her shoulder blade. You could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Her head tilted to one side, exposing her throat.

"Your heart's racing," you observed quietly.

"So is yours."

She turned around slowly. This close, you could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the slight tremor in her lower lip. Her hand came up, resting over yours on her shoulder.

"We have fifteen minutes," she said, her voice husky.

"Not enough time." Your thumb traced the line of her collarbone.

"Enough to start something." Her fingers interlaced with yours.

The door handle rattled.

Both of you sprang apart like teenagers caught stealing cookies. The handle jiggled again, and then a stagehand's voice came through the door: "Jennie? Five minutes to positions! They need you at the east wing for the lift!"

"Coming!" Jennie called out, her voice slightly too high-pitched. She cleared her throat. "I'll be right there."

The footsteps retreated. The handle stilled.

You were both breathing hard. Jennie's hand was on her chest, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The zipper held. The bodysuit was perfect.

"I should—" she started.

"Yeah." You nodded, stepping back to give her space. Your hands were trembling.

She moved toward the door, then paused. She turned back, her expression a mix of frustration and hunger. "After the show. Find me. I'll be in the dressing room."

"What about the stylist? The manager?"

"I don't care." She said it with such finality, such raw need, that it sent a shiver down your spine. "Find me."

She slipped out the door, leaving you alone in the tiny room, the scent of sandalwood and salt clinging to your skin.

The show was a blur. You watched from the wings, your eyes glued to Jennie on stage. She moved like liquid fire, her body rolling and snapping to the beat. Every time she turned, you could see the black velvet clinging to her curves. You could picture exactly what was underneath. The thought made you lightheaded.

During the final song, the choreography brought her to the edge of the stage, down on one knee, facing the audience. But her eyes scanned the wings until she found you. She held your gaze for a full three seconds, her lips parting slightly, her chest heaving. Then she dropped her head and danced on, but the message was clear.

When the curtain fell and the chaos of post-show began—backup dancers filing off, managers shouting, the hum of equipment powering down—you slipped away.

The dressing room was at the end of a quiet corridor. The door was unlocked. You pushed it open.

Jennie was sitting at the vanity, still in the bodysuit, her hair wild from exertion. She was looking at herself in the mirror, but when you entered, her eyes found you instantly.

"Close the door," she said. "Lock it."

You did.

She stood up, turning to face you. The distance between you was three steps. She closed it in two, her hands coming up to cup your face, her lips crashing into yours.

It was messy, urgent, hungry. Her tongue slid against yours, her teeth catching your lower lip. Your hands found her waist, pulling her hard against you. The velvet was soft under your palms. You could feel every curve, every dip, every shudder.

"Thank God," she breathed against your mouth. "I thought I'd lose my mind."

She pulled at your shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. You helped her, shrugging it off, and then your bra. Her hands were on your breasts immediately, her thumbs circling your nipples, making you gasp.

"Lie down," she ordered, pushing you toward the small couch pushed against the wall. You went willingly, falling back onto the cushions. She followed, straddling your hips, the velvet of her bodysuit rubbing against your bare skin.

She reached behind her neck, her fingers working the zipper. This time it slid down without resistance. She peeled the bodysuit off, tossing it aside. She was in just the black lace panties now, her breasts full and bare, her nipples hard. The light caught the sheen of sweat on her stomach.

"You've wanted this," she said, looking down at you. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," you admitted. "Since the first time you came into that room."

"Good." She leaned down, her hair falling around you like a curtain. "Because I've wanted it too. Every goddamn performance. Standing there in my costume, knowing you were the one who zipped it up. Feeling your eyes on me."

She kissed you again, harder, her hand sliding down your belly, between your legs. You were already wet—had been since the wardrobe room. Her fingers found you through your jeans, pressing against the seam.

"Take these off," she murmured against your neck.

You fumbled with the button and zipper, pushing your jeans and underwear down together. She helped, yanking them off your ankles, spreading your legs apart.

She looked at you then—really looked—and the hunger in her eyes made you ache.

"You're beautiful," she said, her voice thick. "So wet for me."

She lowered herself, her mouth dragging down your stomach, her tongue circling your navel. When she reached your cunt, she paused, her hot breath ghosting over your clit.

"Please," you breathed.

She didn't make you wait. Her tongue slid through your folds, flat and warm, tasting you. You bucked under her mouth, a sharp moan escaping your throat. She lapped at you, slow and deliberate, then focused on your clit, her tongue tracing tight circles.

"Oh god—Jennie—"

Her fingers found your entrance, sliding in easily. Two at once. You cried out, your hips grinding against her mouth. She curled her fingers, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

She was relentless, her tongue flicking your clit while her fingers fucked you, faster and deeper. The sound of it filled the room—wet, obscene, perfect.

You were close. You could feel it building, a coil tightening in your belly.

"Come for me," she said, pulling back just enough to speak, her lips slick and pink. "I want to taste you."

That was all it took. You shattered, a broken cry of her name spilling from your lips as your orgasm crashed through you. She stayed with you, her tongue lapping gently through the aftershocks, her fingers slowing to soft strokes.

When you finally stopped trembling, she crawled up your body, kissing you. You tasted yourself on her lips—salty, sweet, intimate.

"That was a long time coming." She grinned against your mouth, her eyes sparkling.

"Not long enough." You pulled her down, rolling so that you were on top, pinning her to the couch. The lace of her panties was damp. You reached down, feeling the heat through the fabric.

"Round two?" you asked.

She bit her lip, arching into your touch. "We've got until the afterparty."

"That's about an hour."

"Perfect."

You slid the lace aside, your fingers finding her slick and ready. She whimpered as you pressed inside—one finger, then two. She was tight, hot, trembling around you.

You lowered your mouth to her breast, sucking her nipple, rolling your tongue around the hard bud. Her hands fisted your hair, pulling you closer.

"Fuck—yes—right there—" Her hips moved in rhythm with your hand, her breathing ragged.

You curled your fingers inside her the same way she had done for you, pressing against that spongy spot. Her whole body jerked. You kept going, your thumb finding her clit, rubbing in counterpoint.

She came with a sharp cry, her body clamping around you, her back arching off the couch. You worked her through it, slowing only when she collapsed, breathing hard.

You collapsed beside her, both of you tangled on the small couch, skin slick with sweat.

"That was…" she started, laughing weakly.

"Desperate?" you offered.

"Necessary." She turned her head to look at you. "I meant what I said earlier. After every show, every fitting, every time you touched that zipper… I wanted this."

You brushed a strand of hair from her face. "It's only the beginning."

Her phone buzzed insistently from the vanity. The afterparty. The real world.

She silenced it without looking.

"Let them wait," she said, pulling you closer. "I'm not done with you yet."

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