kinda need jeno as business major/man from u fren ily
He’s always been the golden boy of your business department. Jeno, with his cufflinks and pressed shirts, the one professors love and girls whisper about. He’s your friend, sure, but not the kind of friend you can think about without your thighs pressing together. You’ve spent too many nights in his apartment going over case studies while his shirt sleeves are rolled up and his voice dips low, explaining something about profit margins while you’re staring at the veins on his forearm.
Then one night he leans back in his chair, legs spread, tie loose, and says, “You’re not even listening, are you?” You should apologize. Instead, you ask him what he’d do if you weren’t. The way his eyes darken tells you everything. The textbook shuts. His chair scrapes back. “You really wanna find out?”
The next thing you know, he’s got you bent over his desk, your name gasped out between the words he uses to scold you. “Should’ve paid attention,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your neck. He’s still in his shirt, still half the polished student he always is, only now his tie’s around your wrists, his breath is hot in your ear, and your study partner is teaching you something you’ll actually remember.
