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[waldau]

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[nerdycheol]

Yours to Keep || J.W.W

pairing: Wonwoo x reader

wc: 4.5k

genre: fluff, angst, long-distance relationship

(a/n): missing Wonwoo hours is officially on. I just wanted to post something for him before he leaves. Also thankyou cel ( @mylovesstuffs ) and ro ( @shinysobi ) for beta reading ^^

summary: Before leaving for military service, Wonwoo hands you a disposable camera, saying, "Take a picture whenever you think of me." At first, you laugh it off, but as the days pass, you find yourself reaching for the camera more often than you expected

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The Departure

The night before he leaves, the air feels different—heavier, like the weight of unsaid words is pressing down on both of you.

You sat together on the couch, a blanket draped over both your legs, the TV playing a movie neither of you were really watching. Wonwoo’s arm was resting along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin, but he hasn’t touched you in a while. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he knows the moment he does, it’ll make leaving that much harder.

You stole a glance at him. His face is calm, unreadable, but you know him too well to be fooled. His fingers drummed softly against the fabric of his sweatpants—restless. He’s been like this all evening, like he’s bracing himself for the inevitable.

“…You should go to bed soon,” he finally says, his voice quieter than usual. “You have to wake up early.”

Your throat tightens. So do you, you want to say, but instead, you shake your head. “Not sleepy.”

He exhales a soft laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Liar.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you pull your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself. He watches you for a moment before reaching behind him.

“Here.” He handed you something small, something rectangular. You took it hesitantly, fingers brushing his, and when you looked down, you saw a disposable camera resting in your palm.

You blink up at him. “Wonwoo, what is this?”

He shrugs, looking almost shy. “Just thought… whenever you think of me, you could take a picture. So you won’t forget me.”

Your heart aches at the way he says it—lightly, like it’s a joke, but the meaning behind it is anything but.

“Idiot,” you murmur, gripping the camera tighter. “Like I could forget you.”

He smiles at that, but there’s something in his expression that makes your chest tighten. You don’t want this moment to end, because when it does, it means morning will come, and with it, the goodbye you’re not ready for.

But time is cruel, and before you know it, the night slips away.

—

The train station is busy, filled with people coming and going, but to you, it feels like you and Wonwoo are standing in your own little world.

You’ve never been good at goodbyes. You hate how they always feel too short, no matter how long they actually last.

Wonwoo shifts his bag on his shoulder, looking down at you. “You’ll be okay, right?”

You nod, but you don’t think you really mean it. He sees right through you, sighing as he reaches out to ruffle your hair—something he always does when he doesn’t know how else to comfort you.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

You bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry. “Liar.”

That makes him laugh, and for a moment, it’s just like any other day. Like he isn’t about to step onto that train, like he isn’t about to leave for months.

The announcement echoes overhead. Wonwoo glanced at the clock, then back at you. His eyes soften.

“Guess this is it.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”

He hesitates, then reaches for your hand, squeezing it once before letting go. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. You feel the words lingering between you, the ones he’s never been good at saying out loud.

You watched as he took a step back, then another. And then, with one last lingering glance, he turns and walks away.

Your fingers tighten around the camera in your pocket.

The first picture you take is of the train as it disappears into the horizon.

The First Few Weeks

The first thing you notice is the silence.

Wonwoo never filled a room with noise—he wasn’t the type. But the absence of him is loud in a way that makes your chest feel hollow. You woke up the morning after he left, instinctively reaching for the other side of the bed, only to find cool, untouched sheets. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ll get used to it.

Except you don’t.

The first week is the hardest. Every little thing reminds you of him. The empty coffee mug sitting on the kitchen counter because you keep forgetting that you only need one now. The folded-up blanket on the couch, still carrying the faintest trace of his cologne. The Spotify playlist he made for you playing on shuffle while you try to focus on anything that isn’t the aching space he left behind.

You held out for a call, a text—something. But the military isn’t generous with communication, and you know you won’t hear from him often. You try to be rational about it. You tried to focus on other things. But every time your phone lit up, your heart stumbled, hoping it was him.

It never is.

You don’t want to admit how much you miss him. It’s embarrassing, really. He’s only been gone for a few days, and you’re acting like you’ve been separated for years. But the quiet moments are the worst—the ones where you have no distractions, nowhere to direct your thoughts.

And that’s when you remembered the camera.

It had been sitting on your nightstand since he gave it to you, untouched. You pick it up hesitantly, rolling it over in your hands.

"Whenever you think of me, take a picture."

You scoffed under your breath. He’s going to regret saying that.

Because the first picture you take is of his empty side of the bed—a silent complaint, a little jab at how much you miss him already. You didn't let yourself linger on it for too long, tossing the camera back onto the nightstand and climbing out of bed.

___

Days passed, and the camera became an extension of your routine.

You take pictures without thinking too hard about it, little pieces of your life that he’s no longer here to witness. The second picture is your morning coffee, still made in two mugs before you remember there’s no one to drink the other. The third is the bookshop you both love, his favorite aisle tucked into a quiet corner.

You find yourself narrating moments to him in your head, like he’s still beside you. Wonwoo, you wouldn’t believe the way our neighbor’s cat tried to steal my lunch today. Wonwoo, I went to that ramen place you like, and they gave me extra toppings because they felt bad I was eating alone.

You don’t say them out loud, but somehow, taking the pictures feels like sending a message. Like you’re keeping a record of your days, waiting to share them with him when he comes back.

___

One evening, you caught yourself reaching for your phone before realizing, again, that you couldn't call him. Frustrated, you grab the camera and snap a picture of yourself in the bathroom mirror—tired eyes, a messy ponytail, an expression that practically screams, "I miss you, idiot."

You roll your eyes at yourself. Pathetic.

Still, you didn't delete it.

Somewhere in the quiet, you started to realize—this wasn't just about missing him. This was proof. Proof that life is still moving, that you’re still finding ways to smile, to laugh, to exist, even in his absence.

And maybe, just maybe, when he finally came back, you’d hand him this little stack of memories and say—

"See? I never stopped thinking of you."

The Changing Seasons

The world keeps turning, even when part of you feels frozen in time.

Autumn faded into winter, and with it, the sharpness of your grief softened. Missing Wonwoo doesn’t feel like an open wound anymore—it becomes a quiet, familiar ache, something that sits in your chest like a second heartbeat. You still woke up reaching for him, still caught yourself glancing at your phone too often, but the loneliness no longer consumed you.

Winter was harsh this year. The first snowfall blankets the city in white, and for a moment, it’s almost beautiful. You remember the way Wonwoo used to stick his hands into his coat pockets, his nose red from the cold, mumbling about how he’d rather be inside reading. The memory makes you smile, and without thinking, you grab the camera.

Click. A picture of the snow-covered street. The kind of scene he’d roll his eyes at but secretly find pretty.

The days were slow, but they passed. You kept moving forward, one foot in front of the other. Work keeps you busy, friends pull you into plans you’d rather avoid, but you go anyway—because that’s what Wonwoo would want.

You started writing him letters.

Not the kind you send—just scribbled thoughts on paper, folded neatly and tucked away. Some are short: I saw someone today who looked like you, and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Others are longer, rambling about your day, the books you’ve been reading, the songs you’ve been listening to. It’s comforting, in a way, to pretend he’ll read them someday.

Then spring came, and with it, a shift.

The world thawed. Trees blossom, the air turns warm, and the weight on your shoulders lifts—just a little. It’s strange how time does that. How grief doesn’t disappear, but it changes shape, fitting itself into the life you’re still trying to live.

You took more pictures now. Not just for him, but for yourself.

The cherry blossoms are in full bloom—soft pink petals against the sky.

The first ice cream of the season, melting too fast in the sun.

A selfie, just to prove to yourself that you’re still here, still living.

There was a moment—just a fleeting one—where you thought, Maybe I’m okay.

Then summer arrived.

And so did his letter.

You recognized his handwriting instantly, your breath catching as you tore open the envelope. It was short, because Wonwoo had never been one for long-winded words.

"I miss you. Are you still taking pictures?"

Your hands shook as you held the paper.

And for the first time in months, you cried.

Not because of sadness. Not because of longing.

But because you finally understood.

This distance—it was temporary. Seasons change. Time moves. And eventually, he’ll come home.

And when he does, you’ll have a whole life’s worth of memories waiting for him.

The Hardest Days

Some days pass in a blur—wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat. You go through the motions, keeping busy enough that the ache in your chest doesn’t have time to settle. But the hardest days?

The hardest days drag.

They stretch endlessly, pressing down on you until you feel like you might sink under the weight of them. They aren’t loud or dramatic; they don’t come with warning signs. Instead, they creep in quietly, disguised as ordinary moments that turn into reminders of how much you miss him.

__

The first bad day comes two weeks after Wonwoo leaves.

You were doing okay, keeping yourself distracted, until you stepped into your favorite bookstore—the one you used to visit together. At first, it felt fine. You even reached for a book you thought he’d like, flipping through the pages with a small smile.

Then, you glanced to your right.

His usual spot—third shelf from the entrance, where he’d always linger, eyes scanning the titles like he was searching for something he’d lost—was empty.

The realization hit you like a punch to the stomach. You could almost see him there, adjusting his glasses, tilting his head slightly in thought. You could hear his voice in your head, muttering about how he “wasn’t going to buy anything this time” only to walk out with three new books.

But he wasn’t there.

And for the first time since he left, you truly felt his absence.

You left without buying anything.

__

The days bleed into each other after that. Some are manageable. Others make you feel like time is moving too slowly, stretching the distance between you even further.

Then the second bad day comes.

It starts with an innocent notification—a new game update.

Wonwoo had been so excited about this one. He’d rambled about it for weeks, explaining all the new features in way too much detail, his eyes lighting up in that rare, boyish way. You’d teased him for it, but truthfully, you’d loved seeing him that excited.

Your fingers hover over your phone, debating whether to open the game.

But what’s the point? He’s not here to play with you. There won’t be any late-night matches, no playful competition, no quiet chuckles when you mess up and pretend it was lag.

Still, you tap the icon. The screen loads, and suddenly, your vision blurs.

Because there—at the top of your friend list—is his username, followed by the dreaded words:

"Last online: 14 days ago."

The tears come faster than you expect.

You stare at the screen for a long time, hands clenched tightly around your phone, chest aching in ways you don’t know how to fix. The world keeps moving, but for you, time feels frozen in the moment he left.

___

And then, the hardest day of them all.

It’s late—past midnight. You should have been sleeping, but instead, you were lying in bed, curled up under the blanket Wonwoo used to steal half of.

Your body feels heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and loneliness.

You roll over, reaching for your phone, because on nights like this, instinct takes over. You want to call him. Just to hear his voice, just to know he’s still there, even from miles away.

But you can’t.

So instead, you do something even more reckless.

You scroll up in your messages. Past the "good luck" text you sent before he left. Past the "I landed safely" reply he sent hours later. Past the little check-ins, the random inside jokes, the "I miss you too" he sent on a particularly bad night.

You scroll all the way back—weeks, months—until you find the voice messages.

Your fingers tremble as you press play.

"You always stay up too late, you know that?" Wonwoo’s voice filters through the speaker, quiet and familiar.

"I swear, if you don’t start sleeping earlier, I’m gonna—ugh, never mind. Just take care of yourself, okay?"

There’s a slight pause, then a soft chuckle.

"You’re probably rolling your eyes right now."

A shaky breath leaves your lips.

"Alright, go to sleep. Goodnight, dummy."

The recording ends. The silence that follows is deafening.

And that’s when it really hits.

It’s not just that you miss him. It’s not just loneliness. It’s the fact that you can’t reach for him whenever you want. You can’t call him and expect an immediate answer. You can’t see him, can’t hear his real-time reactions, can’t fall asleep to the sound of him breathing beside you.

He’s gone.

And no amount of scrolling through old messages will change that.

So you do the only thing you can do.

You clutch the phone to your chest, squeeze your eyes shut, and let the tears fall.

Somewhere, across the distance, Wonwoo is probably doing the same.

The Small Joys & Healing

Time has a funny way of moving. Some days stretch endlessly, the hours dragging with a weight that makes everything feel slower, heavier. And then, without warning, weeks slip past in a blur of routine and half-hearted distractions. You don’t know which is worse—feeling like you’re stuck in time or feeling like you’re moving too fast without him.

But eventually, somewhere in between the long nights and the quiet mornings, you start to find something like peace.

It’s not the kind of peace that makes the missing go away. No, that lingers, settling in your bones like a familiar ache. But it’s a softer kind of longing now—one that doesn’t consume you, one that reminds you that love doesn’t disappear with distance.

___

The first few weeks were the hardest, but the world didn’t stop turning just because he was gone.

You still wake up every morning, even when the bed feels emptier than usual. You still go about your day, even when every little thing reminds you of him. The bookstore you both used to visit, the ramen place he always craved at the most random times, the late-night walks that feel lonelier without his quiet presence beside you.

At first, you avoid these things. It feels wrong to do them without him, like you’re leaving him behind somehow.

But then, slowly, you do return.

You find yourself stepping into the bookstore one afternoon, the familiar scent of paper and ink wrapping around you. It’s instinct to glance toward the third shelf—the one where he always stood, hands tucked into his pockets as he scanned the titles. He’s not there, of course. But you let yourself linger anyway.

Your fingers brush against the spines of books you know he would’ve picked. A classic novel with poetic prose. A sci-fi story with a plot twist he’d figure out before the halfway mark. A historical book he’d read just to debate the accuracy of it later.

Before you know it, you’re picking one up.

Not just for him. For you.

Maybe, when he comes back, you can tell him about it. Maybe you’ll finally have something to recommend to him instead of the other way around.

The thought makes your chest feel lighter.

__

Then, there’s the laughter.

It sneaks up on you one evening while you’re on a call with friends. They’re arguing over something ridiculous—whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza, or maybe which video game has the worst NPC dialogue. You’re half-listening, offering the occasional hum of agreement, until someone casually brings up Wonwoo.

“He’s probably trying to act all serious in training,” one of them says. “But I bet he still zones out mid-conversation like usual.”

The memory of Wonwoo’s blank, unreadable expressions comes rushing back, and before you can stop it, a laugh bubbles up. A real one.

And just like that, you remember:

Wonwoo might be far away, but he’s not gone.

He’s still him, still existing, still part of the world you share.

It’s a simple realization, but it lifts something inside you.

You laugh again that night, and for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like you’re betraying the ache in your chest.

___

And then come the letters.

They don’t arrive often, but when they do, they feel like tiny lifelines. A piece of him, sent across the miles, just for you.

The first one is short, the paper slightly crinkled at the edges. His handwriting is neat but rushed, like he was scribbling between moments of exhaustion.

"I’m fine. Tired, but fine. It’s weird not having my phone. I keep reaching for it before remembering I can’t just text you. I hope you’re eating well."

You trace your fingers over the ink, swallowing the lump in your throat. Even in the middle of everything, he’s still thinking of you.

"Oh, and don’t let them trick you into watching horror movies without me. You know you’ll regret it."

A small, breathy laugh escapes you. He knows you too well.

That night, you sit at your desk with a pen in hand, writing your own letter back. You tell him about your days, the little things he might miss—the bookstore visit, the ramen place, how your friends still argue over the same things. You try not to sound too sad, even though the words feel heavier than they should.

At the end, you add, “I miss you. But I’ll wait. Just don’t forget about me, okay?”

You don’t expect an immediate reply, but when his next letter arrives weeks later, your heart pounds as you unfold the paper.

"I could never forget you. Don’t even joke about that."

And just like that, the waiting feels a little easier.

___

Healing doesn’t come all at once. Some days are lighter, some days are heavy. There are moments when the longing feels unbearable, when all you want is to hear his voice, to see him sitting beside you, to feel the warmth of his hand in yours. But there are also moments of quiet contentment—when the missing turns into something gentler, something that reminds you that he’s still yours, even from a distance.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.

Because love like this—steady, unshaken, unwavering—is worth waiting for.

And when he comes back?

You’ll be right there, waiting.

The Return

The moment you spot him, the air in your lungs disappears.

You’ve been preparing for this day for months—counting down, dreaming about how it would feel to finally see him again. But none of those daydreams could’ve prepared you for this.

For him.

He steps past the arrival gate, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his uniform crisp and perfectly fitted. His posture is straighter, his movements sharper, his presence heavier. It’s him, but at the same time, it isn’t.

Wonwoo has always been broad, but now he’s different—stronger. His shoulders are wider, his arms more defined, muscles straining slightly under the fabric of his uniform. Even his stance is different, more solid, more certain.

And his face.

Your heart stutters at the sight of him.

The softness of youth has faded from his features, replaced by sharper angles, a sculpted jawline, a quiet confidence that wasn’t there before. His skin is tanned, kissed by the sun after months of training outdoors. His lips are slightly chapped, a little more serious than you remember. And his eyes—

They meet yours across the crowded terminal, and everything else ceases to exist.

Your chest tightens.

His gaze is the same.

Still warm, still familiar, still your Wonwoo.

For a second, he doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching you, taking you in. And then—

The corner of his lips twitches. A breath of a smile.

And just like that, you’re running.

You push past strangers, the sound of your own heartbeat drowning out the noise around you. He sees you coming, and before you even reach him, his bag is slipping from his shoulder, arms already opening—

Then you crash into him.

He’s solid. So, so solid. Your arms wrap around him, and for a second, he stumbles back from the force of your embrace. But then his hands find your waist, gripping you tightly, pressing you closer.

And oh.

He feels different.

The Wonwoo you remember was warm and comforting, but this Wonwoo is unshakable. His back is firm under your touch, his arms secure around you, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He smells like fabric softener and something distinctively him, something you missed more than you can ever put into words.

“Wonwoo,” you breathe, voice muffled against his shoulder.

He exhales shakily. “Yeah,” he murmurs, like he can’t believe this is real either.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hands fisting the back of his uniform. He doesn’t let go. Neither do you.

When you finally pull back, your hands instinctively find his face, palms pressing against his cheeks. He lets you look at him, watching as you take in every detail—every sun-kissed inch of his skin, every small change time has left behind.

“You got buff,” you whisper, half teasing, half awed.

His lips quirk slightly. “That’s the first thing you say?”

You laugh, a little breathless, shaking your head. “You just—” You pause, eyes sweeping over him again. “You look different.”

Wonwoo tilts his head. “Yeah?”

You nod, fingers brushing over his jaw, feeling the rougher skin there. “But you’re still you.”

His expression softens, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. His hands, still resting on your waist, tighten just slightly. “Still me,” he echoes.

You smile. “Still mine.”

Something shifts in his gaze. His thumb brushes against your hip, and for a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s memorizing this moment, memorizing you.

Then, voice quieter than before, he murmurs, “Always.”

And with that, he takes your hand, laces his fingers with yours—strong, sure, steady.

“Let’s go home.”

Epilogue: Home

The apartment feels the same, yet entirely different.

It smells like the candles you kept burning, like fresh linen and the faint scent of coffee. The same bookshelf stands against the wall, still overflowing with your shared collection of novels and mangas. The couch still has the blanket you always curled up in, the one that used to smell like him before it faded away.

But now—he’s here.

Wonwoo stands in the center of the living room, eyes scanning the space like he’s reacquainting himself with it, like he’s trying to remember what it felt like to belong here. His duffel bag rests by the door, abandoned the moment he stepped inside. His jacket is slung over the back of a chair, and he’s wearing the plain black tee and gray sweatpants you had set out for him, finally out of that uniform that made him feel distant—unreachable.

His hair is shorter, his shoulders broader. His stance is different, like the months away have reshaped him in ways that are still settling. But his eyes—they are the same. Warm. Familiar. Home.

And then his gaze landeds on what you’re holding.

The disposable camera.

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “You still have that?”

You nod, turning it over in your hands, fingers brushing over the familiar ridges of the plastic body. “Of course. You gave it to me before you left.”

He had slipped it into your hands that day at the departure gate, voice teasing but eyes serious. "Take pictures. So I don’t miss too much."

So you did.

Of your morning coffee, of the stray cat that lingered by the bookstore, of the first snowfall that settled on the windowsill. Silly things. Little things. Things you wished he could’ve seen.

Wonwoo stepped closer, his fingers ghosting over the camera. “How many are left?”

You glanced at the film counter. “One.”

His expression shifted—something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he reached out, fingers wrapping around the camera.

Click.

The shutter snaps before you can react.

Your eyes widen. “Wait, what—”

Wonwoo lowered the camera, the corners of his lips quirking up. “Wanted the last one to be of you.”

Your heart stutters.

You should’ve expected it. He has always been like this—quietly sentimental in ways that take you by surprise. But something about this moment, about the way he’s looking at you, like he wants to memorize every detail—it makes warmth bloom in your chest.

You reach for the camera, setting it gently on the table before stepping closer, wrapping your arms around him.

Wonwoo exhales, his hold firm, grounding. His chin rests against the top of your head, and for the first time in months, you feel complete.

“You’re back,” you whisper.

His lips brush against your temple. “I’m back.”

A pause.

Then, softer—“I missed you.”

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, your throat tightening with emotion. “I missed you too.”

Outside, the city hums with life, the world moving as it always has. But here, in this small apartment, time stills.

And as you stand there in his arms, the disposable camera sitting beside you, its final photo safely tucked away inside—you know you’ll never need it to remember this moment.

[waldau]

20270102 when i catch you 20270102

[waldau]

Heyyy!!!!!! None of your links have been opening...is something wrong?

i saw this 10 million years later and i'm so so sorry but i changed my username, the links should be working now!

[tomodachiii]

Perspective

Perspective

pairing: TA!xu minghao x TA!reader

synopsis: Xu Minghao hates you. You've been sure of it ever since you met him. And when you find yourself working alongside him as a teaching assistant for your painting professor, you think you might hate him too. But one late night, two semesters, and three exhibits later, you find your perspective beginning to shift.

w.c: 17k (surprise surprise)

tags: non idol!au, uni!au, studio art majors, slowburnish, academic rivals to lovers, reader is a simp and it fails horribly i mean its hao what did we expect, academic rivals to lovers, aka mutual pining idiots who think they are e2l, some Anish Kapoor and other artists slander

warnings: i am not an art major or artist but im raw dogging it, profanity, making out, kissing (lmk if i missed anything)

a/n: itsa here and im blinking rn as i type. this is my first collab and im hoping i did well! This is for the Seventeen TA collab hosted by @camandemstudios ! Thank you @highvern, @gyuswhore, @waldau and @temptaetions <3 cam for all the research material and ideas, em for answering all my art related questions even the odd ones, ren for the ideas, listening to me scream and going through my work, and alta, i hope i did ur mans justice, thank you for always being available <3 thank u to those in the server for sprinting and being encouraging!

Please check out the wonderful fics from this collab by your favorite writers! Enjoy <3

collab masterlist || masterlist

No Age Indicator/Minors/Blank blogs/Serial Likers will be blocked!

The first time you fell in love with art was when you were ten, watching your grandfather finish an oil painting of peonies in a vase. It was custom for him to always present you with one from your grandmother’s garden each time you visited. Till your grandma’s passed on and the garden has wilted and dried. Now, his arthritis prevents him from walking too far down to the florist to get the real thing, but he doesn’t let it stop him from painting you one either. His fingers shake, it takes him about a week to finish, but he does it, slowly but surely. It's how he tells you he’d do anything for you despite his limitations, despite your mother’s protests. The painting itself was simple yet it captures every bit of detail that charms you about that flower. He forgets to tell you it needs to cure and dry for a while. So there's a little smudge at the edge from where it had brushed against your shirt as you threw your arms around him in a tight embrace. 

The second time was when you were twelve, nervous at the dentist’s waiting room. Your mom suggests that you look through the stacks of magazines to pass the time and get your mind off the daunting tooth extraction appointment. You doubt it will make it any easier but after a few minutes of falling into boredom, you reach for the magazines. They’re either Cosmo girl, Reader’s Digest, National Geographic or Avon. You browse through them, not truly reading or grasping whatever hot topic there was back then. But a certain print on the National Geographic catches your attention. They were textiles all over the world and varying patterns that are nearly hypnotic. The intricate lines and shapes lure you in that you barely hear your mother calling you for your appointment. 

The third time was when you were fourteen and officially sold to the beauty of art. Your father takes you with him to a work trip outside your city. There’s not much family catered entertainment while you were there but he decides that an art exhibit should be good. It was a simple kind, curated by four art students. You vaguely remember it being about the little things you overlook. And that stuck in your young mind. 

The halls were sectioned into photographs, paintings, and a few dioramas. They range from captured moments of a lady getting into the subway, a shot of a pigeon on top of a stop light, and some silly chalk drawings of children on the pavement. There were realistic paintings of light filtering through blinds, a ladybug on a houseplant, and a set of monochromatic images of lattes, coffee mugs and beans where the artist used coffee as paint. The dioramas were made from everyday materials and miniature people. A single soup ladle had been set up to reflect a swimming pool where the tiny people slid from the handle, some books turned over were arranged to look like mountains to be hiked, and lego blocks turned over and filled with soil and tiny clay grass and flowers. 

Your father had thought you’d quickly get bored but you stayed there for an hour, admiring each piece in detail and realizing how much you fail to enjoy by simply not looking and romanticizing all the things at present. 

And when you used your humble earnings from pet-sitting in the neighborhood to purchase your first art materials–you quickly discover, you have a natural talent for art- and you loved it. Your mother was happy about it, which surprised you as she wished for you to take up skills that were “practical” and could feed you. But you figure it must be nostalgic for her, knowing her own father was an artist himself. 

Growing up, your talents were acknowledged and praised.You had your family’s full support and encouragement. In school, you often found yourself being volunteered by your teachers and peers for murals, posters, t-shirt designs, and banners. 

By the time you were sixteen, competitive and driven, you entered art clubs and regional art contests. Then when you received your first win, you decided it was the validation needed to pursue this for the rest of your life.

You enjoyed art and your creativity was boundless, thrilled by the idea of recreating beauty at the tips of your fingers. The mere idea of capturing beauty with any means and materializing it to your own interpretation gives you a rose tinted perspective on life. It’s something you want your audience to see too–that there is endless beauty in life meant to be appreciated and monumented. It makes you a romantic, that you’re aware of but it's brought you through the many lows that come your way and that’s enough.

Everyone regarded your talents as something special, your high school teachers and later your art professors during your bachelors in fine arts. It had not been easy, because you were not really prepared for the vastness of creating art and the physical stress of submitting projects almost every two weeks. The exhibits left you burnt out and exhausted each time. But you figure it's okay—everyone seems to love your work. You’re well acquainted now with your limits and mediums you’re most comfortable with. You knew it wouldn’t be easy but once you’ve got your foundations laid, you can manage.

The way was paved for you and all you had to do was walk in it.

So you walk into your next step of taking up your masters degree.

It’s been two years since you’ve completed your undergraduate program and you moved away from your city into a bigger city to work as a highschool art teacher and freelancing from time to time so you could gain experience before getting into masters. It was nerve wracking but you had faith that you got what it takes to inspire the young minds into tapping into their inner artist. You spent the first half of the term joyously advocating the splendor of life that they had the ability to bring to life the feelings it evoked. 

You finished the term lackluster and spent that you never bring up that flowery philosophy again. All that mattered then was that they attended, got their basics down, created something they loved and  submitted on time.  It had been stressful, albeit a little chaotic dealing with hormonal teenagers who manage to include some cameo of a dick in their works. 

By your second year, you revamp your teaching pedagogy and approach, being more detailed with your expectations while they work within those guidelines. They’ve had more freedom of expression from there, and they discover their philosophies of art on their own. While the load is tiresome, it brings you deep satisfaction to see the joy and pride in their faces as their love for the craft grows. And even if they don’t pursue the same things as you do, you’re content to know they have a space like this to fall back to.

You decide, this isn’t something you don’t terribly mind doing once you’ve finished your graduate program.

The first time you saw Xu Minghao, you were absolutely floored. He showed up to your first day of class, dressed like he had a runway to walk in the next ten minutes. He was just in an all-black fit, a loose button up, tailored slacks, and a long coat. But you quickly learn that his sense of fashion was merely part of his charm. 

Minghao was gorgeous, regal, and had this genteel aura that lures you in—not too close, but close enough to marvel at his beauty. It was like he was created to be admired and valourized but not indulged in. 

His vulpine gaze is steady, posture sure as he scans the room for a vacant seat. You distantly wished the seat next to you was available but alas, all you could do was watch as he occupied the seat two rows away from you. 

You know, maybe it should embarrass you how quickly you had poeticized him in your head. You blame it on your romantic nature and that’s why it was no surprise to anyone that you chose the arts. There’s life and beauty in all the unsuspecting corners of this world. It would be a waste to live once and not bask in it. And that includes ogling your hot classmate for the first half of the semester.

So when one of his charcoal pencils falls off his desk, you’re quick–too quick–that you nearly launch yourself onto the floor to grab it and hand it to him. In your head, you think it’s a classic moment where you’d lock eyes and he’d finally look your way. But your chair lets out a loud screech, drawing unwanted attention from your peers. Minghao fixes you with a look. It was brief but you see him enough to notice the slight arch of his brow and a ghost of a scornful curve of his lips. With a slight nod, he takes the pencil from your hand and returns to his task without a word.

Really, you should have been embarrassed.

Because Xu Minghao hates you. 

You’re sure of it in those few seconds your eyes locked.

You linger on that one moment more than you’d like to admit. 

Because you’re in your second semester when you spot an opportunity for redemption during your Life Drawing class. A voice tells you one embarrassment is enough, that you’ll dig yourself a deeper hole when you stand up to walk over his seat to ask for spare pastels.

You’d like to believe there’s more than meets the eye. 

Minghao likes to keep to himself, that's what you’ve learned. He has some friends, mostly from different majors like Jun from Biology, Mingyu from Photography, and some others who are just as attractive as he is. 

Minghao, also, does not seem approachable. It wasn’t that he was unkind–he was polite, well-mannered, and soft spoken. He was just simply intimidating.

And you’re wondering if he’ll spare you the same courtesy he does your peers when you come to him for a favor.

“Hey,” you whisper with a gentle tap on his shoulder.

He turns to you with a passive glance, likely displeased that he had been pulled out from his zone. 

Your smile wobbles a little but your voice manages to stay steady, “I was wondering if you had spare oil pastels on you?”

He’s silent for a beat and suddenly it unnerves you that you stumble out an excuse, “It’s just…I-...I was late this morning so I forgot them. I didn’t grab my usual bag and–”

“You're using the same bag,” he deadpans and starts to turn away from you, “Life Drawing is every Thursday, be prepared next time.”

A hot flush of indignation and embarrassment runs through you. With a mumbled sorry, you promptly turn around to retreat to your seat. Your face burns by the time you’re sat and it doesn’t even occur to you that you don’t have anything to complete your task. You stare at your blank sketch pad mounted on your easel, mind running a mile per minute processing your shame and how you could excuse yourself from this class. 

Till something brushes along your arm and your eyes drift to the person seated beside you. Lifting your head you notice your seatmate (Vernon, was it?) extending his box of pastels towards you. 

“We can share.”

He looks at you expectantly with those big brown eyes. You’re a little surprised at the gesture because you were sure he didn’t even realize you existed. Vernon was always in his own little world, given that most of your classmates are eccentric in their own ways, but he always seemed–lost. 

Still, you’re grateful for his attentiveness and you whisper your thanks before getting to work. 

You think you’d get over your embarrassment until you realize how pitiful and desperate it must have seemed to have stood and walked over another seat to borrow supplies only to be rejected when you had a seatmate willing to share with you.

Your eyes quickly flicker over to Minghao, effortlessly recreating his own interpretation of the model in front and his open supply box abundant with pastels of different types and sizes.

The shame churns into something else entirely.

Xu Minghao hates you.

And now you hate him too.

You have avoided Xu Minghao since then, feeling an immense blow on your pride for having daydreamed about some fateful connection. It was an easy task, he liked to keep to himself anyway. You only see him during your shared classes and rarely do you bump into him in the halls. 

“Before we begin with the Fundamentals of Art, I would just like to quickly go around the room and ask: what does art mean to you?”

You watch the back of Minghao’s head once he answers and it falls through deaf ears when all you can think about is the twisting pit of rage in your gut. 

You may have avoided him but you can’t stop your growing childish resentment towards him when he simply speaks to the professor, asks questions, or carries casual conversations with whoever his seatmate may be. He’s gentle and polite and you feel your ears heat up in irritation when you hear his soft chuckles for the first time when he’s with his friends. Why was it natural for him to be cordial with others but you?

The thought stays in the backburner because you were here for a reason other than letting some cold bastard plant a seed of insecurity in you.

You finish your first year of your masters by the skin of your teeth. It’s tougher than you anticipated and you supposed that's because you’ve come from a community college where pressure and competition were less tense. The constant production of creativity and the competitive nature to be unique with every project drained you. It was physically exhausting most days, and on the tougher weeks you developed cramps on your hand and lower back. Physical stress was manageable—the humbling critique and grades did something to your spirit. 

It didn’t really help that your classmates, as outlandish as they were, had different degrees of obnoxiousness. (Your snobby crush being one of them). In comparison to your college friends, you expected a lively and closely knit community bonding over the intricacies and brevity of the world captured in diverse art forms. Yet here you were listening to your peers of varying ages argue over the interpretation of a two dimensional art work every first ten minutes of your classes while flaunting their experiences and achievements. There were contrasting understandings of beauty, what art meant, and the right and wrong ways to utilize your tools. Maybe your cohort was different, your seniors seemed pretty chill–but right now, you can’t be bothered to reconcile ideals to make one project work. It felt pretty alienating to actively avoid those discussions.

But that’s okay because you’ve made a friend—Chwe Hansol, Vernon. You sit together, share some breaks together, and pair up when given the task.

And you’ve come to learn that your elusive classmate who always seemed lost—was truly lost. 

You notice it with the lack of a certain finesse when holding a pencil or brush. You hear it with his fascinated ‘oh’s’ when your professor makes a brief comment on how acrylic dries into something akin to plastic. Or how he has certain misconceptions on some basic instructions. But he’s kind, and he really tries. So you ignore his palette of primary colors and dub it as his own art style. 

Only you discovered that wasn’t the case when you paired up for another Life Drawing project where the assignment was to simply sketch out a portrait of your partner using any medium from the draw lots. 

You both had pulled charcoal.

Imagine your surprise when he shows up to the studio with a literal bag of coals rather than compressed drawing charcoals. You wait for him to burst out laughing  and tell you it was a prank but he simply stands from across you, clapping his hands to rid the dust away from his palms. Patiently, you wait for him to explain but he doesn’t.

“Vernon…what did you bring?”

He tilts his head, expression steady as he tells you plainly, “Charcoal. Did you forget? I think this is more than enough for both of us. They wouldn’t sell it to me in singles so-”

“Vernon,” you swallow and sigh, “We don’t use literal coals…”

“We don’t?”

You reach for your collection of compressed charcoal. He stares at them without a word, blinking slowly as he is processing. 

“This is charcoal…we have different types like the willow charcoal, vine, nitram–you can use whichever you’re most comfortable with or what effect you want to achieve.”

“Oh,” he mutters, “I have never used them before.”

That was normal, it was okay because there are mediums you’re yet to discover but based on his track record–you have a feeling he’s never done any of these before.

Before you could even offer to teach him,Vernon  reveals something you were not prepared for. 

“Y’know, I’m not…supposed to be here. As an art major, I mean.”

Your jaw goes slack and your brows furrow when you realize you’re nearing the end of your first year when he tells you this. 

“Sorry?”

“I read the first half of the introduction to the course and signed up thinking it was for Film Production.”

You think he’s joking, especially not when your university had thorough screenings and a portfolio evaluation you had toiled over for months.

“Did you not at least ask yourself why you needed to submit a portfolio?”

“I figured they wanted a visual of my artistic expression, I guess,” he tells you plainly.

“And your supplies? What did your portfolio even look like?” your hand fumbles for a seat.

“My younger sister had some stuff,” he pulled out a chair for you, “Prof. Jeong later asked me if I was a fan of Anish Kapoor. And I just said, ‘The Chicago bean dude? Sure.’ “ 

You grimace a little, you were not a fan of his work so to you that would be an insult. But it worked out for Vernon and if there's anything you’ve learned about him at all, especially up to this point–it's that nothing he does has to make sense.

Since then it was given that whatever project you shared that would normally be done in an hour or two, would go on for another hour just walking him through the basics. You didn’t mind, it was comfortable working with Vernon.

By the beginning of your second year, it is clear to you that the odds were not in your favor.

you: ure not lost r u?? class starts in ten 

Vernon does not reply and it makes you worry he’s lost his way around the new campus building, or worse lost his way on the way to campus. Just before you think to call, a bag plops to your right where a vacant seat had been. Thank goodness you had reserved the one to your left with your bag for Vernon–

You look up to greet your new seatmate but it dies in your throat.

Xu Minghao

He’s bleached his hair over the break and he’s wearing a white tank and a denim jacket. You’ve never been this close to him and he’s still  breathtakingly gorgeous. You notice the mole at the corner of his pink lips and how much sharper his gaze is, framed by the platinum locks curling against his forehead.

“Minghao.”

You blink. 

His brow arches at your silence but he sits down and repeats himself, “My name—it’s Minghao.”

“I know…?” you say dumbly, a little dazed at the fresh fragrance that follows him.

His lips purse, “And yours is?”

It takes you a beat to realize he’s introducing himself and he doesn’t know your name. 

You shared more than half of your classes with the bastard for a year. You may not have paired up or worked on projects with him or a handful of your classmates but you know their names from being called up by the professor, during presentations, and their exhibits. A familiar hot flush of irritation runs through you but you compose yourself and tell him your name. He repeats it before nodding and turning away to prepare his materials.

You frown at the back of his head, “I studied with you for a year.”

He glances over his shoulder, pauses for a beat before he lets out an “Oh.”

There was this unspoken rule in any class you take that the first seat one takes will be their spot for the year. And now that Xu Minghao’s staked his claim on the seat next to you, he still manages to prove he’s an asshole—

bonon: hey srry not coming. I dont feel so good.

You just hope Vernon gets better soon not only for his sake but also for yours.

You want to curl up and cry when you’ve been paired up with the bane of your existence for an exercise in your drawing class. It would have been bearable if the task had been collaborative. But the task was to use your partner as a model and draw them in six different angles. 

That meant you had to look at his stupid self, and sketch out all the details of his stupid pretty face for two hours.

You’re gripping your pencil a little too hard as you map out his eyes and lips, doing your damned hardest not to look at him too much or squirm under his intense gaze. Your sketchpad is pulled up close to your face while Minghao has his resting on his lap, movements fluid as they glide over the surface.

It takes you about thirty minutes before you feel your shoulders ease and you forget all you’re feeling for Minghao outside of being your muse. You’re a little more comfortable glancing at him more, eyes tracing over how his wavy locks curl around his brows and the cut of his jaw. The soft color of his eyes framed by strong brows. But your gaze lingers on the fullness of his pink lips and how beautifully placed his mole is that you think of–

“You’re sure taking your sweet time on my face.”

—how much you’d love to shove your fist up his face.

You blink and realize he’s already starting on a second angle of your figure. You scoff and carry on shading his lips, “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor drawing you,”

He smirks, “I know I look perfect but it doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“Unlike you, I care about art and not simply submitting whatever I pull out of my ass though you could look like one.”

“The objective is about perspective and the right proportions in different angles. Professor Lee’s not expecting you to put out a Mona Lisa.”

You frown and ignore him, determined to show him that you can get both of them done. Like it hardly takes any effort.

But you unconsciously begin drawing your next angle more loosely, paying close attention to the lines of his figure and the shading rather than perfecting that one portion of the task.

“Hey, does this look, right?” Vernon nudges your elbow. 

You look over his station to find…a tangle of wires that was vaguely shaped like a pyramid. You squint at it a little. It was the basics of sculpture today and your class has moved on to wire sculptures. Given that the task was to produce a wire-sculpture of a well known monument, it could resemble a pyramid in Giza if he added a little more dimension to it.

“I think you made a great triangle, ” you snicker which earns him a sigh. You gotta hand it to him for sticking it out in a course he’s never done. “Look, I think you’ve got the base down but maybe…recheck your calculations. Pyramids are not two dimensional, after all they have–”

“It’s supposed to be the Eiffel Tower,” he deadpans. 

Oh. 

Now you mull over what to tell him because if it were you, you’d start all over again. Just as you open your mouth to suggest, another voice interrupts.

“Your base will work, just twist the rest of the wires in a spiral.”

You inhale deeply, recognizing that flat tone anywhere, ever since he’s decided to be your seatmate. Vernon glances behind you to nod at Minghao and turns back to his sculpture. Minghao moves around your table to demonstrate what he meant, giving Vernon pointers in the right direction. 

By the time they’re done, the sculpture was a lot more comprehensible and better than how it first started but looked more like an avant garde version of the Eiffel Tower. However, your friend seems to be happy with himself, nodding with that little ‘stank’ face he does when he’s impressed. 

“Thanks man,” Vernon brings his hand up in a fist bump. 

“Keep it up, you might be the next Anish Kapoor.”

“Chicago bean dude—nice.”

You don’t say a word and you grimace at the comparison, wondering whether you should have a little session with Vernon about real artists. But your friend looks so pleased, eyes shining with pride as he observes his sculpture like he couldn’t believe he did that. Then you find yourself smiling softly, feeling happy that he’s beginning to see the joy in creating.

Your third semester goes by smoothly though, the projects and assignments become increasingly difficult and challenging to keep up with. What stresses you out the most were the satisfactory grades and critique from your professors. You constantly felt like you never reached what it was exactly they were envisioning you to do. And you can never understand why either, you’ve used their techniques and followed each criteria to a T.  Yet you always leave their offices with an average grade, neutral reactions over your art and vague comments.

“Something’s not right.”

“No visible brush strokes. Nice.”

“It looks like something obscure I’ve only seen once in my life.”

It leaves you at a loss of where to go, how to make your art incite the same reactions and inspiration you once did years ago. You think maybe your art was not as beautiful anymore so in desperation, you learn different mediums, mixed media, and change up your art styles. It feels like a gamble each time, seeing which combination would win you the response and grades you favored.

On the other hand, Minghao does not annoy you anymore than he does when he opens his mouth. It was a nightmare to be paired with Minghao for a project–even more so on the very week you were down with a cold.

While he’s mostly quiet in class–when given a chance to speak on a topic, he speaks in that tone of his, forthright and a little acerbic. He always had the right words to say and he was not afraid to express his own critique over even the most accomplished artists. 

There was so little people knew about him that you wonder where he got the audacity. Because if Minghao opens his damn mouth one more time you’re stabbing your palette knives into his eyes.

“Reminds me of Liu Wei,” he comments on your half finished oil painting. Ah yes, yet another artist you hate.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Not my fault.”

You grip your palette tightly, resisting the urge to whack it across his face. The bastard is smirking to himself as he carries on with his work, hands effortlessly gliding across the canvas. 

“Are comparisons to shitty artists the only way you can critique someone else’s work? I’d hate to have you as my instructor.”

“Well, maybe if you knew what kind of techniques those artists used, you’d actually learn something,” he says, unaffected by your glare.

“The techniques don’t matter when their work looks ass,” you grumble, turning back to your canvas.

He doesn’t say anything, but when you subtly glance his way, you see a sliver of a frown set on his lips. You consider it a win.

Halfway through your fourth semester, your painting professor senses that your class has been thoroughly exhausted off their creative departments. He decides to give you all a little  exercise to ‘refresh’ your basics and let loose with your canvas.

The task was to use broad brush strokes, no blending, just good ol’ impressionist painting of a fruit bowl in the middle of the studio. It’s a little nostalgic of your undergraduate days when you were just learning. 

It was supposed to be relaxing as your professor put it, and everyone else seems to be calmly working on their pieces. 

But you—you’re stressed and obsessing over the shape of the damn bowl. 

It doesn’t seem right or proportional. And you can’t bring yourself to move on until this one looks just right. You’ve been doing that a lot more lately, and somehow, it doesn’t feel like art anymore, it feels like an expectation you can’t meet, a task you need to keep consistent on.

“You spent one session on that damn bowl,” Minghao comments.

If you could hiss, you would, but that would be embarrassing. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking so you ignore him.

“You’re not doing it right,” he warns you calmly.

You feel a vein in your head throb, “See how I’m minding my own business? Very demure. Very mindful.”

This earns you a scoff.

“The technique is to use loose brush strokes,” he reminds you, all the while not taking his eyes off his canvas. You hate that he’s doing so well. 

“I can read the board.”

“Funny you do, but still miss the point.”

And it's funny how this man can make anything in your hand a potential murder weapon.

Minghao turns towards you and sometimes you hate how he looks because each time he does this, you get a little less pissed and a little more flustered that the bite in your tongue just retracts. He reaches over and grasps your wrist, fingers curling over yours and the brush. 

You’re too stunned at his touch. You try not to think about how gently he’s cradling your hand as he guides your brush towards the canvas. In a few wide, well placed strokes, he’s corrected your lopsided bowl, giving you a base to work on. You're filled with a mix of gratitude and anger. Thankful since your agony has ended and anger because he had corrected it in a few flicks of his wrist.

“Loose, broad strokes,” he murmurs before releasing your hand and returning to his own easel like it was nothing.

You fume and do the same, cheeks warm from an emotion you cannot pinpoint. You try not to think about how the skin in your hand tingles from his touch.

“Why do you hate Hao so much? He’s a pretty chill dude,” Vernon asks you over lunch when he notices your scowl the minute Minghao passes by. 

“Hao?” you raise your brow, “I didn’t know you guys were on nickname basis now.”

“Yeah, like I said, he’s pretty chill.”

“But that’s because you’re you.”

“Okay…” he rolls out the syllables, “But why do you hate him?”

“He hated me first.”

Vernon scrutinizes you, watching you absentmindedly play your food.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, he–” then you pause, trying to pinpoint and remember when it was that convinced you that he hated you. “Don’t you hear the way he talks to me? And looks at me? It’s so different from when he talks to you or anyone else!”

“He sounds the same when he talks to you,” your friend tilts his head, looking somewhat shocked at the conclusion you’ve drawn. “Besides, he chose to sit beside you in all our shared classes when there were other vacant seats.”

You huff and stab your fork through your lunch, “That’s cause he knows I hate him and he just wants to be infuriating. ”

He looks at you incredulously, like he’s confused why you can’t see it from his perspective, “But you literally get the best grades when you’re paired up.”

“Because there’s no way I’m letting that asshole drag my grades.”

There’s a pause long enough for you to be convinced Vernon’s already dropped the topic and you finish your lunch in silence. As you pack up and gather the containers to toss into the bin, Vernon looks you dead in the eyes and says,

“You like him.”

A strangled noise leaves your throat and you whack his arm, “I don’t!”

“He likes you.”

“If you don’t shut your damn-”

“It’s fine, girl,” he rubs where you’ve hit him, “You can like him, we’re not in highschool anymore and-”

You slap his arm again, “I do not. End of discussion.”

It was after school hours when you received an email from one of your admired professors, Professor Jeong. It’s addressed to your cohort about an opening to anyone who’d be interested in being his teaching assistant  for Painting in the coming new school year for the undergraduate program. He sends the basic requirements to apply and encourages the opportunity for you to build your resume or if you’d ever be interested in becoming an art teacher yourself.

You write up your cover letter, attach your CV, and portfolio without thinking about the possible repercussions on your final year.

You get an email back in two days and a request for an interview. You pass with flying colors and you’ll be starting in the next month.

But Professor Jeong never told you that he had been looking for two teaching assistants for his Painting Class. Not that you minded but if your co-teaching assistant is Xu Minghao—you minded a lot.

You’ve decided that your professors were conspiring against you.

“I was originally looking for just one,” your professor explains as he looks over the two of you sat in his office, “But with the number of freshmen enrolled, and well—” he gestures to his wrinkled hands, “I’m getting too old to keep up, and there will be frequent sessions where  I will be absent due to doctor’s appointments. So, I figured it would be best to have two. And what do you know, they happen to be my two most competent students.”

You try to keep the grimace off your face to be on par with the man beside you, but you nod and thank your professor.

“It’s fairly straightforward,” Professor Jeong explains as he lays out a few stacks of papers before you, “This is the yearly plan, syllabus and an outline of my lessons for the whole semester. Apart from the job description I’ve emailed you, I would also need you to assist with opening and setting up the classrooms 20 minutes before the students arrive. Each week, you’ll be assigned a corner of the class where you’ll pay extra attention to the students stationed there.”

Professor Jeong flips his table calendar towards the two of you, “However, I have an overlap of schedules from this week to till the end of the semester. I need you to teach a session every Friday, you guys can choose if you should alternate each week or teach in a monthly rotation. I hope that won’t be too much of a big deal for you since you both have teaching experiences.”

Your brows nearly raise as you glance over at Minghao. Nearly three years and there's still so little you know about him.

“I also understand this is your final year, which means you’ll have exhibits, some bigger projects, and a thesis to worry about.”

The realization makes dread settle in your stomach. So far you’ve managed the past two years, and you’d like to think you made better decisions now than when you were in your undergraduate study. 

“Do not hesitate to ask for my help, in case it gets too overwhelming. You’re free to use the studios after hours. Please share your duties responsibly,” the old man looks between the two of you, and smiles,  “Though I’ve seen how well your dynamics go in the classroom so I have nothing to worry about.”

You feel the muscle beneath your eyes twitch because you’re sure he means some other pair in class since all you’ve ever wanted to do was wrangle Minghao’s pretty little neck.

Xu Minghao hates you and you think maybe your professors do too.

“Ms. Y/N, what do you think about this?”

It feels like ten minutes when its only been three minutes since you’ve been staring at one of the student’s painting wondering how you could politely say that you don’t understand what the fuck he’s doing. Just three weeks into being a TA and you’re tested in every way. You tilt your head, like that makes any difference in helping you decipher the work in progress.

The task was to draw the same figure in three different moods that were similar in nature: ghostly, melancholic, and bored.

But you feel like you’re staring at three different blobs in three different colors.

You must be quiet for too long because the student begins to shift under your gaze, looking a little discouraged and antsy. You don’t mean for him to feel that way but you don’t know what to say other than ‘what are you trying to do?’ cause that would just further discourage him. If there was anything that frustrated you as an undergraduate, it was the vague critique of your instructors that didn't point you in the right direction.

“Is it that bad?” The students’ voice was much smaller now and guilt twists in your chest as you scramble for the right words in your head. 

“It is,” a stony voice responds from over your shoulder that you jump a little. “It lacks depth.”

You didn’t notice Minghao walking to your side when he noticed your struggle. You notice the little wince the freshman does that you sigh, and put on your best customer service smile, “What Minghao means is that you seem to have the general composition. You have this, and this is great, but we don't yet have a general idea about what you're trying to present.”

Minghao’s brows furrow, “I did not say that.”

Before you could abandon all professionalism and slam his face through the canvas, Minghao moves to the student’s side. 

“A big part of expression is contrast, don’t be afraid of using darker colors,” he starts picking out tubes of paint for the student to mix in his palette.

“What if I put it in the wrong places?” 

 “We’re using acrylics, they tend to be more forgiving,” Minghao offers, before gesturing to him to mix the colors. “If that happens, you can always go back over it once it's dry.”

The student nods, eager with the clarity of his next step. 

Minghao’s eyes meet yours, a honeyed brown with a vulpine edge that makes you squirm in spite of the heat in your glare. 

Your approaches towards students were evidently different. Most days, you think the freshmen were more terrified of Minghao than Professor Jeong himself. It’s exasperating sometimes when he’d come up behind you to give a more direct version of whatever you were trying to tell a student. 

“Ms. Y/N, I highlighted the areas you’ve suggested, can you come take a look?” a girl waves her hand over her easel. You shuffle towards her station with your customer service smile but once your eyes land on her canvas, the corners of your lips twitch. She highlighted the right places, you’d give her that, but they were the wrong shade and pressed heavily onto the areas. Others may dub it as artistic expression but it is not exactly ideal for realism. 

You hum, pausing and choosing your words carefully. You’re nearly tempted to call Professor Jeong to take this one but you feel he may be too harsh on the girl’s breaking spirit. Earlier, while you had assisted this girl, you could feel her frustration and doubts. It's her tired eyes, the confusion in them, and her hesitating hands. You pointed her in the right direction with all the grace and empathy  you could muster. 

The medium had been oil paints hence an easy clean up before it dries, but that would mean recreating the colors and strokes all over again. You don’t know if she has enough in her to do it again. 

You decide to do it over again for her instead, sensing she’s close to tipping over the edge. You pat her shoulder and tell her that you have a ‘trick’ to show her as you walk away to grab a paper towel and spray bottle up front. Just as you return with the damp paper towel, your heart literally sinks seeing your co-teaching assistant standing behind the student you left momentarily. 

“What made you think light hits this way when your source of light is up here?” Minghao points out. 

“I just thought that it made sense if I…” she sputters, unused to the weight of his hard gaze.

“Sometimes common sense is the guide that we need.”

Once again, he’s made the paper towel in your hand a potential murder weapon if you’d just shove it down his throat. The poor girl looks disheartened, her mouth opening and closing at a loss for words. You take a deep breath, intending to remain composed.

“Hao,” you call out sternly, which surprises you, that even Minghao looks mildly intrigued. “Soobin over there needs your assistance.”

You place a hand on the girl and lean over to begin wiping off the poorly placed highlights.

“Your comments are more welcome there,” you mutter with a bite, fully expecting him to leave with a snarky remark. But he doesn’t, he just leaves.

You’re relieved he does. Your ears are hot and your heart is racing as you gently walk the student through techniques of how she could fix her mistakes. 

Later, you pull aside Minghao as you finish gathering up the supplies and reports. Normally, it would intimidate you to confront him with something serious and outside your daily banter, but seeing that girl’s face crumple before him today had laid heavy in your chest.

“I don’t like the way you spoke to that girl earlier,” You turn to face him, arms crossed not in defiance but rather you feel naked each time he looks at you with such intensity. “Since last week, she hasn’t been at her best. It’s clear that something is wearing her down hence affecting her performance.”

Minghao scowls, “It is not our job to be babying these adults. They came here to learn the fundamentals of art and we give them that.”

“I know that you like to think everyone needs the no bullshit approach you use but it will not kill you to have a little more kindness and sensitivity,” your gaze hardens, nails digging into your arm, “You may care about them perfecting their techniques and craft but I-...”

Your mouth runs dry as you struggle to find the words to say. Minghao waits, he looks at you expectantly, guarded but not defensive. 

“I don’t want them to start hating themselves or their very hobbies,” you swallow.

There's a pause and silence that unnerves you. You’ve argued with Minghao before, insulted each other and you’ve given him your nastiest glare—but this was different. This wasn’t about the two of you anymore or how much you hate each other’s guts. 

You don’t know how you manage to handle his gaze but you do because ironically, you can see that you’ve been heard. He slowly nods, face neutral as he reaches for the folders from the desk behind you. 

“Okay, next time.”

Juggling your duties between your classes, projects, and teaching each week started off manageable until at the beginning of your fifth semester, your dean had begun discussions of your thesis and an exhibition seminar. The theme would be: The Art of Everyday. Thankfully, the exhibit would be done as a collective rather than on your own which meant that the instructor organizes the exhibition while the students deliver the execution. 

You feel sorry for Vernon that you couldn’t be as available to him as you were before when you’re rushing between classes to prepare for the undergraduates or you’re too exhausted working on a project late at night. But he assures you that he’d be fine. You trust he’d be, he always managed in the end.

The stress is catching up, you can feel it, and it manifests in ways that frustrates you–forgetting where you left your car keys, piles of take out, eyes half closing while you grade and worst of them all, staring at a blank canvas for more  than ten minutes at a loss of what to create.

Minghao, on the other hand, you have no idea how he’s managing well. Sure, there was a bit of a rush in his pace but he still kept up to his tasks. 

You see him nearly everyday and almost the whole day. Most days, he beats you to Professor Jeong’s class, having set up everything and every Monday, you would see three cups of steaming coffee on his desk. The second Monday you see this, you thank Professor Jeong for always thinking of you two on his morning coffee runs but he just smiles and says that it was all Minghao. 

You don’t mention it to him. But you do start to notice all the things he does in quiet. Opening doors for you even in the middle of your daily banter, a hand over the edge of the table when you duck to pick up a fallen brush, and his open tub of titanium white and blue between the two of you because you use those colors way too much. He takes over the students with an unbearable attitude, and somehow you’re thankful for his deadpan expression and withering comebacks because you might just cry if it were you. Sure, you still have to deliver a sugar coated version of whatever he had in mind for most but it works. You find yourself unconsciously challenged by his suggestions and strangely understanding how his mind works the more you have to…translate for him. 

Maybe Vernon and Professor Jeong did have a point when they mentioned the ‘dynamics’ you didn’t think existed all that well between the two of you.

You don’t know if it's your exhaustion, your confrontation, or new found appreciation for him, but he irritates you less.

It doesn’t mean you no longer hate him, you’re just affected a little less than before.

After all, you’re still sure he hates you.

Your drawing class had been kicking your ass as of late. It was the most fundamental form of art yet you end up feeling uninspired and pessimistic. You suppose your exhaustion and the vague feedback of your previous works had finally begun to eat away at your resolve. But inspiration or heart cannot matter at this point, especially when you have a huge final project due in two days. You’re never really a person who’d rush your things last minute but last minute panic is all you’ve been running on in your final year.

Ironically, the project had been using charcoal to draw a  self portrait in four different moods: robotic, despondent, listless, hopeful. 

It should be manageable, but  it's a terrifying feat to accomplish in black and white colors. Your perfectionism overrides your panic that you barely notice the nights prior were spent taking advantage of your TA privileges and staying till the wee hours in the studio. You don’t intend to but you’re light headed and starved by the time you notice how late it is. You can’t help it, you’ve already bought two packs of paper from how quickly you’ve gone through them only to be dissatisfied and scrap them.

Now you’re sitting back where you were four consecutive nights right after the 5PM class. 

meanhao: are you still there? I misplaced the keys to the studio and i forgot the papers prof left us

you: yeah i am. 

He shows up twenty minutes later, greeting you with a knock to the door and heading straight to the corner where he had dropped the folders. You don’t say a word to him, you don’t expect any conversation after all. So you carry on your fifth draft of your second expression. 

“You’re still on that?”

“Yup,” you hum, making it clear in your tone that you’re not in the mood for any of his snarky remarks. 

After a brief pause, you expect him to leave but he doesn’t, dragging a vacant stool to sit next to you with his body tilted towards you. Even without looking at him, you can feel the intensity of his stare flitting over your tired features and project. You spare him a questioning glance before you shake your head and get back on task. 

You see him open his mouth from your peripheral and you suck in a sharp sigh, “Stop, I’ve got to get this out before Thursday and I don’t have time for your bullshit remarks.”

Minghao tilts his head, “I was going to ask if you’ve already completed the first draft of your thesis for tomorrow’s mid-year meeting.”

His question feels like you’ve been hit by a truck then run over by a sixteen wheeler…and a family van for good measure. The charcoal falls from your hand in shock and you gape at him, wondering if you wish he hadn’t said it or thankful he did.

You had forgotten.

Of all the projects you could have forgotten to panic about, it was the most crucial of them all. And if you didn’t press your palms into your eyes, you think you’d be seeing Minghao’s smirk of satisfaction. Dragging your palms through your hair, your eyes are wide, derailed from the steadfast will to complete your current task at hand.

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

You take in a shaky breath, feeling your fingers tremble. You can’t cry now, not with so much at stake and especially not in front of Xu Minghao. 

“Look, you still have a little more time,” he quietly offers, and it startles you how much softer he sounds, “It’s just the first draft after all, it doesn’t have to be perfect. In my opinion, you can get more helpful feedback when you submit work that you’re not completely satisfied with.”

You try to process the fact that this is his attempt to soothe you more than his reasoning behind it. It goes against your standards of constantly delivering your best still you can’t help but find that he does have a point.

Slowly, you glance at him to make sure he isn’t stifling his snide smirk or laugh. Instead, you find the mild concern in his eyes veiled by the nonchalance he holds. You take in a sharp breath when you realize that this expression is more familiar to you nowadays than the arrogance in them. You don’t want to wonder why, so you’re thankful and relieved instead because his aloof nature isn’t something you need at the moment.

You take a deep breath, calculating the amount of pages you have left to complete and the hours you need to complete your charcoal project.

You’d have to ditch your charcoal project for the first draft submission, you still have one more night to finish it, you should be alright, you should be okay-

A knock on the door interrupts your self spiral, followed by a familiar ring of your friend’s voice, “Delivery for Ms. Y/N. Oh, hey, Hao!”

You inhale before turning around to greet Vernon. You muster a smile but you figure it doesn’t show anyway with how he meets your expression with a frown. He sets a bag of take out on a table before reaching your side.

“And your project literally beat you up, huh?” he chuckles, roughly rubbing the stain of charcoal over your forehead and eyebrows that you hadn’t realized was there.

You groan and slump your head against his stomach. He hums, patting your back as you seek solace in his worn black t-shirt. You’re aware that each minute not spent on your pressing priorities meant a minute lost. But you were so relieved to see Vernon that you think you might cry. Just the familiarity of him and the mouthwatering smell of your favorite takeout brings you such a comfort of normalcy that you would otherwise have if it weren’t for the damn projects and gradings.

“C’mon, you need to take a break. You’ve been at it for days. There’s no way you can finish this on an empty stomach.”

You give out a muffled thanks, scared that if you look up you’ll actually start crying over the gesture.

“And how about you, man? You here for your projects too?”

You nearly forgot about the man who watches your exchange with Vernon with a hawklike gaze. You suppose that's what stress would do to you. 

“No, I’m done,” Minghao answers, your head perks up while your friend turns to unpack the boxes of take out. Minghao looks between the two of you with something familiar, like aversion but not quite.

“Already? How do you even manage to do that while grading the midterms?”

Then you see it—a coldness you’ve never seen from the man as he regards you with a stony glare. Your face visibly falls, stunned with how quickly you’re being reintroduced to this iciness he possesses just when you were getting acquainted how warm he truly is. 

“It's not that hard when you’re committed.”

You know that it's his usual sarcasm, the kind that’s meant to goad you into challenging him and yourself. 

But it doesn’t spark a fire of indignance in you like it usually does. Instead, you feel something inside you snuff out like a candle by the shutters during a thunderstorm. 

Was that it? You weren’t committed? Or…were you just fighting for something that wasn’t ever meant to be yours?

You shift your gaze over to the piece you’ve spent an hour on—it stares back at you, half done as it is, a reflection of you—despondent. And the crumpled pieces of paper overflowing from the bin stares back at you in mockery.

Did you even deserve to be here?

You say nothing…and Minghao frowns at your silence.

“Okay, food’s ready,” Vernon announces, “Will you be joining us, Hao?”

You remain despondent, staring at the dark strokes until they blur against the white page. 

“No,” Minghao answers quietly, getting up from his seat when you’ve locked him out. “I have to get going.”

You hold your tears long enough till the door clicks shut.

You thought you loved art and that your sheer passion would have been enough. But somewhere in between, you started to hate it.  You didn’t anticipate it–how the burnout slowly wound its veiny hands across your throat. Being on a constant loop of creating, receiving vague to dissatisfied feedback, and rushing through consecutive projects were taking the joy off it all.

Or maybe Minghao was right; it shouldn’t be hard when you’re committed.

That’s further cemented in your thoughts when you leave your two hour mid-year meeting with your thesis with your papers brightly marked with red more than the words you’ve tirelessly written. You left exhausted, already running on three hours of sleep and taking power naps between classes. You shove the papers into your bag, not particularly in the right headspace to review them without descending into the torment of your own thoughts.

A loud tear rips across the empty studio as you angrily pull off, crumple, and toss your third draft for your third expression. There’s soft music playing from your phone, a contrast to your exasperated sighs. It’s been three hours since you’ve locked yourself in, determined to finish this charcoal project for tomorrow’s submission. You’d have to be up early for a meeting with Professor Jeong,  assist in his class at 8AM, grade their midterms, then finally tackle the dreadful task of going through your first draft again. You had an exhibition seminar at 2PM and you’re tempted to skip it but you know you’ll miss a lot. If you ask Vernon to take notes for you, as much as you adored that guy, you’re not so sure he could provide nor ask the details you’d like.

Your charcoal scratches across the paper where you’re particularly stuck on mapping out a robotic ‘mood’ in your eyes. You moderate your movements, being intentional with the highlights of your eyes to emphasize a deadened, unempathetic gaze. It gradually comes together, relief fills you once you realize you can finally start working on your last piece for this project. 

Then you lift your hand off the paper to step back, and finally see it, the smudged lines from where your wrist had rested without a barrier. It would have been salvageable if it hadn’t been stubbornly stained with the sweat from your palms. 

You flop back onto your stool, slouching into your hands. Your arms, fingers and back are cramping and you know you’ll feel it for days. Quietly groaning, you release stuttered breaths and attempt to ground yourself. Last night's breakdown over boxes of takeout, your open laptop, and Vernon’s inept to give you any sound advice that wouldn’t push you to quit your major was enough to have disturbed your already tight schedules.

You peek at the wall clock: 10:44 PM. You’ve been here for four hours and you had your meeting at 7AM. If you still had to head home for a quick shut eye and shower, it would take you thirty minutes to commute and another thirty back. This would probably mean you’d only have an hour of sleep. It’s dreadful but you’ll take whatever at this point.

Before you could switch to a blank canvas, a soft knock startled you. 

You frantically glance around you, terrified at the sound when you expect the building to be empty. Reaching for your phone, you lower the volume and cautiously reach for the closest thing to fend yourself–which happened to be a glass pencil holder. 

The knock comes again and you finally recognize a silhouette from the frosted glass. The knob carefully twists open and you’re surprised to see Minghao enter with a paper bag in his hand. He’s dressed in a much ‘casual’ manner–grey hoodie and jeans. Still, you find it so unfair how incredible he looks in any outfit.

“Hao?”

You wonder what he could possibly be needing at this time, much less come back hours after classes are over. You don’t get to ask. He offers you a tightlipped customary smile before standing a few feet away from you. 

“Still here?”

Frowning, you twist back in your seat.

You know he means that as a greeting but yesterday’s meeting left a sour taste in your mouth and you feel acid rise up your throat. Everything that came from his mouth just sounded condescending now. 

Minghao sighs, dropping the bag on the table before stepping back. You think he would leave but when you don’t hear any footsteps retreating, you spare a stony glance over your shoulder.

“What?”

His expression doesn’t give way to any emotion apart from how his eyes are firmly fixated on yours. 

“You need to eat.”

Your eyes dart over the paperbag, noting the label from your local convenience store. 

An olive branch. 

Minghao knew he had done something wrong.

You huff, turning to your stack of paper, “Already ate.”

That was a lie but you refuse to let him think this was sufficient  to count as an apology. 

“Then,” Minghao pauses, and you think you heard a slight stammer, “You need a break.”

“I can’t afford to.”

“Just go for a walk.”

“Not at this hour.”

“You won’t be alone. I’ll go with you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I am.”

You halt your movements, feeling a sharp surge of irritation shoot through you. Shaking it off, you begin mapping out your portrait and simply tell him, “No.”

You think Minghao was incapable of ever admitting his own flaws without being indirect with making amends. There was no way you were going to let him think that it was okay. If he knew he messed up, the next step was to just say he did. He’s never had any problem with honesty. But instead he’s here at nearly 11PM with a peace offering and a demand for you to leave pressing matters for a walk as a means to assure him nothing’s changed.

It’s silent but the sound of your pencil scratching the surface and the soft music you resumed playing. The tension is thick and you’re waiting for him to accept your rejection and just go.

Then he softly calls out your name in a way that sounds foreign to you.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he finally says. 

Even if you expected him to know he’s hurt you, you didn’t actually think he would admit it. However, if it was your fatigue, ill mood, or pride, you’re not sure but you snap, “What about last night?”

You hear him inhale quietly, “I know I hurt you. You probably felt like this wasn’t the place for you.”

Now that you think about it, why was he apologizing for that? 

Your eyes widen and you whip around to look at him, “Vernon told you!” 

Minghao owlishly blinks at you, “No…you did. Just now.”

You groan, completely forgetting that this man, as unapologetic and aloof as he could be, had such a  deep understanding for people. That’s why his critiques are precise and catered to whoever asked, but that also meant his dry insults were just as lethal.

“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel like you weren't committed or doing enough but it still hurt you,” he continues and it gives you a whiplash that he would still elaborate. “I said that because…Vernon was there.”

You frown to yourself, feeling like he meant something else other than keeping his cold facade.

“I think you’re the most committed person I’ve met when it comes to doing what you do. But well, this–” he vaguely gestures to your art and the clock, “--is unhealthy, but I believe you’re trying.”

Minghao had no problems being honest, it was his strong suit–but you didn’t expect him to be vulnerable either. You’re gaping at him, like he’s grown a second head. He remains unfazed at your stare but you do notice the tips of his ears turn pink.

“And someone once told me that she wouldn’t want anyone to start hating themselves and their very hobbies, so I’d like to take her on a walk.” 

The corner of his lips tilt a little when he catches the shift in your expression. You chew on your lip, already tired and too confused with how to navigate this territory of your relationship. 

“Why would you think a walk would help?” 

Minghao shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets, “It helps when we stop creating for a while and just do something else.”

You contemplate on it awhile, recalculating the time you would need to come back quickly and finish your work. Glancing over at your piles of crumpled paper, you figure, you’ll only be stuck in the same cycle if you don’t take a break.

The night air is cool around the school campus while you walk side by side. You have no idea what it would be like being with Minghao outside of your school responsibilities and teaching assistant tasks. You think that between the two of you, you’d have to be the one to draw out a conversation to fight off whatever awkwardness might settle. But it doesn’t happen.

You’re surprised to learn that Minghao is a natural with leading conversations and asking a good balance of questions and thought provoking statements. Even in nearly three years you’ve known each other, there’s a lot you didn’t know about him. 

He tells you he originally planned on majoring in fashion, given that it was part of his interests, but he figured he could do more with this major. He grew up learning martial arts and that he enjoys dancing. That surprised you as he didn’t strike you as someone who’d express his art through movement. Still, the image of him dancing so beautifully and powerfully puts a smile on your face.

He talks about his hometown, about the busy ports and quiet pockets of the shore. Later, you find out his apartment now wasn’t too far from here, a good five minute bus ride or a fifteen minute walk if he feels like it. Minghao had been a private art tutor for some time, to which earns him a raised brow because that could only mean he tutored some rich kids. But you figure that's why he speaks so eloquently and is quick to provide advice that best fits a student. The experience, much like yours, makes him consider teaching art so he plans to get a certification come graduation.

He asks about you, and you find it funny how you’re just getting to know each other after having studied and taught together. So you do; you tell him about your own hobbies outside of art, about your family, and how your grandfather had been a big influence with your art. Your eyes visibly light up when you talk about the peonies, how they used to overflow through the picket fence, and you’d pick them with your grandmother.

You tell him about your experience teaching art in highschool, that earns him a fond smile and you, a warm flush. You begin exchanging stories about your students from there–their shenanigans, their difficulties, and the art that has stuck with you. 

An hour has passed by the time you’re making your way back to the studio. It was short but those minutes had changed two years worth of whatever you both had. It didn’t count as a friendship but it is something. 

You wonder why he’s going back with you when he could go home. There was no more bad blood and he wasn’t obligated to stay but he said nothing about it. 

“What is art to you?” he suddenly asks, visibly more comfortable.

“Why do you ask?” you ask, peering up at him curiously and you don’t comment on how close you are to each other that your shoulders brush and you can smell the faint powdery scent of his fabric conditioner. 

Minghao glances at you and it doesn’t intimidate you anymore, knowing him the way you know him now. 

“I was just wondering if your answer would still be the same.”

Huh?

Seeing your confusion, he further elaborates, “During our first year, Professor Lee asked us the same question.”

Your brows furrow, “If I don’t remember that question then I most likely can’t remember my answer.”

He shakes his head with an amused smile and you decide that you don’t mind seeing it more often than his infuriating smirk and glower.

“You said something like ‘to create something beautiful,’” then his nose scrunched.

You bump his shoulder, “What? It’s a good answer!”

“No, you don’t get it,” he nudges you back, “Art isn’t about just beauty.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll find it yourself,” he answers simply and you groan.

The art building comes into view and Minghao still doesn’t turn to leave. You’re feeling your earlier dread creep into your forefront but it's less daunting as it was an hour ago. You want to thank him but you’re tongue tied, still navigating in this new dynamic between you. And you wonder how everything changes from here.

Minghao insists on staying. Not verbally, but he asks you where your thesis draft was and while you hesitate, you have a feeling you can trust him. He sits on a table beside you, going through the embarrassing amount of red marks and revising what he could on your laptop. You would stubbornly protest and insist he could go home at this point, but you’re a little desperate to get some things off your plate.

The sounds of your pencil gliding across paper, the soft music, the clicking across the keyboard and shuffling of papers were all that filled the silence of the room. There are occasional questions about your papers from Minghao, and in turn you ask for his opinion on your progress. You’re mildly shocked he doesn’t make any passing comment on your mistakes. Perhaps, you villainized him a little too hard.

It’s 2:56 AM by the time you’re done. Your body feels like shit but you’re happy with how everything turned out. You’re finished, Minghao has done some revisions on your thesis, and you’re packing up and ready to go. 

Letting out a loud groan, you reach your arms over your head, feeling the strain on your lower back, arms, and fingers. Minghao does the same, albeit with more grace than you possess. He looks tired too, but he doesn’t show it. 

“Thank you, Hao,” you offer him a tired smile, “I’d probably have curled up and cried if you hadn’t come here.”

He gives you a nod and a soft smile, tucking your laptop away.

You tilt your head, suddenly remembering, “By the way, I should have probably asked earlier, but why did you come here? I mean, you could have talked to me right after class. Instead, you came here at such a late hour.”

It must be the fatigue or the lighting but you swear you saw the tips of his ears turn pink.

He doesn’t answer, just waves his hand and reaches for you to usher you through the door. You quickly realize, Minghao may not be capable of lying but he sure can avoid telling you the truth. 

“You should go home and rest,” he tells you and you faintly feel his palms running up and down your back, “You don’t have to go to the meeting, or attend class.”

“But I have to!” you interject, “The meeting with Professor Jeong has to do with the midterms, and we have to be there in his class. Also I have to submit my charcoal project then attend the exhibition seminar.”

Minghao sighs in exasperation but he also understands that he can’t convince you otherwise. 

“At least get three hours of sleep. How far is your place?”

You tell him your address and he frowns, holding your wrist before you could reach the main entrance, “That will take you almost an hour to go and back.”

“Uh, yeah,” and you realize that would mean you’ll only get an hour of sleep at most before you can freshen up and eat so you can pretend to be a sane person to get through the day. But it is preferable than the idea of sleeping here and carrying on the day in yesterday’s clothes and makeup does not appeal to you at all.

Minghao pauses for a while, regarding you with a thoughtful gaze that takes everything in you to not squirm. 

“How do you feel about going back to my place instead?” he suggests, “It’s much closer, you can get at least three hours of sleep in a proper place before we have to come back here. You can freshen up there and I don’t have a dryer but I know I have some clothes that might fit you–”

Your wide eyes make him stutter to a halt and even in the warm lighting of the building, it’s unmistakable that you see how he turns red at his suggestion. 

“If you don’t mind, of course,” he finishes, releasing his fingers that were curled on your wrist so you don’t feel like he was particularly pressuring you. 

You give it some thought, and you just know you’d be freaking out about everything that transpired tonight if it weren’t for how bone tired you were. 

“Okay, Hao.”

Minghao’s small apartment was neat and homey with all his personal pieces mounted on the walls or stacked by the doorway. He apologizes for the mess since he didn’t expect anyone to be over but you just scoff and wonder what his home looks like if he did clean. Your exhaustion barely takes it all the tiny details that make his home. So you both move swiftly, chucking your shoes off, putting away your things while Minghao asks you to wait for fifteen minutes so he could prepare his bed and get changed. You tell him that the couch, hell even the floor was fine. You’ll only be sleeping for a few hours anyway. But he leaves you no room to argue as he disappears down the hall to his room. 

You nearly doze off where you had waited for him but you wake to the gentle shake on your shoulder and his gentle whisper that you could move to his bed. He’s in a tank sweats, and he leaves his own blanket and pillow on the couch. You groggily follow after him to find freshly changed sheets, a worn shirt and basketball shorts folded at the edge with a towel and makeup wipes. 

That suddenly alarms you and before you wonder out loud if he had a girl. He regards you with an incredulous frown, “I use them.”

You blink and recall the times he did wear mild makeup and how you had particularly drooled over him when he showed up to class wearing a smoked out eyeliner.

Minghao gives you a brief rundown of where things were and if you ever needed anything you could just call him. You nod, feeling yourself get a little too lightheaded. He bids you goodnight, and leaves. 

You’re barely under the covers when you’re knocked out of exhaustion, eased by the scent of him that surrounds you.

The next morning, you’re both too tired to talk the fifteen walk to university so you take the morning bus.

Physically, you both are tired.

But there’s new energy thrumming between the both of you. You look up at Minghao from where you’re seated. The bus was full this morning, and he offered his seat to an elderly woman. The gesture alone solidified your recent realization that you did indeed, villainize Xu Minghao too harshly. 

Well that and the way he woke up earlier than you to make you breakfast and coffee then help you fit into his sweater and sweatpants. They don’t fit like they should but you’re tickled pink at the thought of wearing his clothes. He took one look at you, and returned with some jewelry pieces and accessories that he felt would pull the outfit together. It felt like you had your own personal stylist. You felt prettier than you did in your own clothes and you call the fluttering in your stomach an acid reflux from how much coffee you consumed…which grows ten times worse when Minghao gets ready and shows up in an outfit with the same color palette as yours.

The sun was just rising, filling the bus in its golden hue. Minghao was standing over you, hand on the rails above while he looked out the window behind you. The sunlight flashes over his eyes each time you pass through a building, the grown out platinum locks are flat and curled loosely around his face, and even with the evident exhaustion, he was so beautiful. Were his eyes always this brown?

Sensing your stare, he glances down and this time, you don’t squirm or look away. You’re content to just look at him, admire his features up close and finally notice the mole at the corner of his eye that was barely noticeable from the length of his hair. Unconsciously, your lips stretch into a fond smile. 

Minghao smiles back.

There’s an evident change in your gait, in the way you enter a room, and hold yourself. It startles you how at ease you were the entire morning even running on three hours of sleep. It might be your body running on sheer willpower alone but your heart tells you it had something to do with how much closer Minghao is now. 

Everything runs smoothly as you accompany the students in finalizing mid term projects that were centered around the theme of identity and their self portraits.

Up until you hear a loud clatter and a surprised gasp.

You flip your head over to one of the stations where you had seen a student prepping her canvas for varnishing. It was the same girl from a few weeks ago that had pushed you to confront Minghao’s tactless statement. Her hands are over her mouth as she gapes at the knocked over paint over her canvas. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t fallen over half of the face on the canvas. She quickly reaches for a rag and starts rubbing which disturbs the paint underneath. You walk over noticing the frustration and anxiety in her eyes, knowing that she had to submit this within the hour. 

Minghao reaches her before you could and that makes her panic more. 

“Hey, don’t, this could work,” he tells her calmly before reaching for the same paint that had spilled over. 

“No, it’s ruined,” she croaks, hands shaking at her sides.

“I like to believe that mistakes are fixable,” he assures. You stare at him, and find yourself wondering when did he become ten times more attractive in the last twelve hours. 

You attend to the other students who call for your attention all the while sparing glances over to Minghao and the distressed girl. He shows her a sample of what he’s envisioning and she’s quick to nod and follow with newfound hope.

By the time there’s ten minutes left till they had to scurry to their next class, you approach the two and take a look at the final product. You’re impressed at Minghao’s creativity and how quickly the student had worked to make it look like it took days. The stain over the half of her face had been shaped and improvised to look like it had been a silhouette of a mask. 

“See, fixable,” Minghao points out while the student lays her brush down.

“Happy accidents?” you offer giving her a pat on the back. Your co-teaching assistant rolls his eyes before shaking his head with a smile.

The student gives you both a fulfilled grin, “Happy accidents.”

The interaction sticks with you and you find yourself suppressing a giddy smile as you stack up the individual student folders with their rubrics and grade. You had four more things on your checklist today, attend your drawing class, submit your project, head over to the exhibition seminar before going home to go over Minghao’s notes on your thesis.

Just as you turn around to bring the papers over to Professor Jeong’s office, Minghao takes them off your hands and blocks the doorway. Confused, you look up at him to find his figure looming over you. It feels like a stern warning coupled with his next words, 

“Listen, I know the next class is important and you’re too stubborn to ask Professor Jeong’s help with your schedules…but why don’t you skip the exhibition seminar and just head home to rest?” 

You shake your head softly, “I can’t, you know how important that seminar is for our final exhibit.”

“I’ll take notes and send them to you. And if that isn’t enough for your detailed oriented ass, I’ll record the whole thing,” he offers, firmly planted at the door until you agree with him. Your heart does a little backflip at that and honestly, you’d prefer Minghao taking notes for you than Vernon any day.

“Hao, you’re tired too. You stayed up with me, worked on my thesis, and took care of me at your own home.”

Now that you say it out loud, it hits you just how quickly everything escalated between the two of you and how you’re both not at each other’s throats.

Was Minghao truly mean this whole time? Or did you have a wrong perspective?

“But I wasn’t the one basically living in Professor Jeong’s studio for the past two weeks,” Minghao pressed and you ignored the fact that he noticed, “You need to sleep it off.”

“But-”

He sternly says your name, “You’re not going to be of any use running on three to four hours of sleep, take outs, and coffee.”

There it was, the straightforward, cutting nature of Minghao that would piss you off before he even speaks. But this time, it doesn’t and you listen to him.

He walks you to the bus stop after class, and gives you a small wave from where he stood as you pull away.

Xu Minghao hates you, you stood on that for the longest time.

And now, you’re not so sure if he ever did in the first place.

The weeks that follow are less stressful than the last but when graduation season closes in the calendar, the stress and the tight schedules amp right back up to newer heights. While you vowed that you would never fall back into that routine of staying late in the studio, you couldn’t help it when you’re between attending classes, seminars,assisting in them, and preparing your own corner of the exhibit all the while finishing your thesis.

You’re sick of staring at blank canvases, half finished ones, empty tubs of paint, and crumpled paper towels.

Your projects and graduation are all that occupy the forefront of your mind that you barely find time to reflect on the shift in your relationship with Minghao. He’s close enough for you to call him a friend but friends don’t do what he does for you. Friends don’t pack lunches for you on your busy days. Friends don’t call you on the weekends just so they could simply talk to you. Friends don’t offer to stay in the studio with you till the late hours. Friends don’t carry your bag or hold your hand with an excuse that it's gotten too cold. Friends don’t leave you their spare keys or pick you up when you stay out too late. Friends don’t tell you to keep their burrowed clothes when you crash into their place and attempt to return them.

And when Vernon had obliviously called Minghao your boyfriend in front of him—he doesn’t even deny it. 

Friends don’t do that.

You push that in the backburner, you had too much on your plate to think about that.

Xu Minghao doesn’t hate you like you thought he did.

You settle for that.

You’re back to where you were again a few months back, despondent, lackluster for your art whenever you had to create just for the sake of meeting a deadline and expectation. You’re at the homestretch but you told Minghao how much you’ve been feeling nauseous anytime you enter a studio. He had hummed sympathetically, suggesting that maybe you needed to learn a new medium so you could have an experience without any pressure of meeting an instructor’s expectation and consequence.

“Your clay is tilting,” Minghao says. "Your pressure’s unsteady.”

You carefully adjust your palms to even out the balance but one corner ends up being thinner than the other. You hear him click his tongue and there’s a momentary hot flush that fills you.

This was supposed to make you love art again.

But you hate it.

You hate that his critique has an effect on you. You hate that you listened to him once he suggested you try your hand at something you’ve rarely done. You hate that even in a practice without a rubric or expectation, you’re still harshly scrutinizing your creation. You hate that you’re feeding into your self loathing because you hate what’s becoming of your clay. You hate that you feel something in your chest ebb and flow in overwhelming waves. You hate that you’re losing your composure over your failing art.

Your frustration reflects, the clay starts twisting unevenly beneath your unsteady palms.

“Like this.”

Warmth covers your back and your arms are braced by Minghao as he cups your hands under his own. You feel his thigh nudge yours away from the pedal as he takes over. He’s gentle just like he always was when touching you. There wasn’t a lot of times to begin with, but enough for you to still feel the burn of his skin against yours. 

The pressure of his palms slowly right the tilt of your clay, and slowly, as you let him guide your movements, it starts to take shape. He stays there, sure and steady.

“There you go,” he murmurs, warm breath brushing against your ear. 

He’s quiet for a while, just letting you feel the right pressure and motions. The silence and his proximity should have made you jump, flustered, and tense. But you don’t. Instead you find yourself releasing a deep breath, unconsciously leaning into his frame while you let his motions ease you.

“It's not just about the result,” he mutters, “It’s also the process.”

You can’t find it in you to disagree with him. You don’t know when or where you got the instinct to constantly defy him. 

Minghao is right. 

Maybe you rushed further ahead with a vision of perfection that you thought you had to meet. And set standards for yourself that you didn’t realize might not withstand the test of time.

“See, not bad for a first timer,” he huffs out a quiet laugh, and it ghosts along your neck.

The wheel slows to stop and you feel like your breathing stops too. Minghao doesn’t let go of your hands, they settle on the wheel, his clay covered fingers curled loosely over your own. 

He was so close, close enough to feel his warmth, feel his heartbeat against your back, and the way  his grown out blonde locks tickle the skin of your jaw. You’ve never been this close before. He doesn’t move away and you don’t want him to. 

You feel him turn his face towards you and you tilt your head to look at him. Minghao was always intense, yet he’s gazing at you gently but with raw want. His forehead nearly touches yours and you can’t find the words to say, unwilling to break whatever fragile tension flows between the two of you.

You don’t know who moves first. But he’s dipped his head to press his lips against yours. It’s gentle, slow, but hesitant at first, almost as if testing the waters. Your eyes flutter close, savoring the tenderness he holds you in. He pulls away, just barely, his eyes half lidded, breathes mingling as if asking if that was okay.

You nudge your nose against his and he dips down once more to capture your lips in a heated kiss. You gasp, pressing even closer. He releases your hands to clasp your waist while you twist your body to throw your arms around his neck. His lips are soft against your own but a complete contradiction to the frantic way he’s pulling you even closer. You sigh against his mouth when he licks at the seam of your lips. He groans when your tongue brushes his and his hand reaches up to cradle your neck. You whimper at the cold sensation of the clay but you couldn’t care less, as your hands come down to caress his shoulders. 

He can’t seem to get enough. Each time you part, he dives right back in till you’re breathless and panting against each other’s mouths, hands grasping where they could.

You try turn your body to comfortably face him but you lose balance on your stool nearly pushing him off. His hands fly to the wheel to balance you both but his hand smacks your wet vase in the process. 

Startled, you pull away from each other and look over the wheel where the vase had been smashed in on one side. There’s a brief pause, you both blink owlishly before slowly turning towards each other. You both burst into a fit of giggles when you see the smears of drying clay on each other’s necks, jaw, and hair. Lightness fills your chest as you watch his grin reach his eyes, crinkling in mirth and cheeks red with what had transpired between you.

Friends don’t messily makeout—literally.

“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, rubbing his nose against yours.

“For what?” you whisper smiling into this tender affection.

“For your vase…your hair…and hm, your shirt,” he chuckles sheepishly. It gives you a whiplash to see him this way, especially when you’ve conditioned yourself to see him as some cold hearted bastard. 

Perhaps, you did have the wrong perspective.

“I’m not,” you smile, sweetly kissing the corner of his mouth, “I’m not sorry at all.”

The first time Xu Minghao saw you, he thought he had never met someone so determined and passionate about their art. He finds himself listening to your every word in Fundamentals of Art, while he didn’t agree with your ideals, it didn’t mean he couldn’t admire you. There was an intense passion in your eyes as you worked and you had always been careful and intentional to perform your best. 

But passionate people burn themselves quickly. 

Hence, he always felt the need to  push you in the right direction even if you had gotten off on an awkward foot.

 That one Thursday in Life Drawing, you had tapped his shoulder, shyly asking if he had any oil pastels to spare. 

“You’re using the same bag. Life Drawing is every Thursday, be prepared next time.”

That’s what he had told you. He meant well, meant to say you shouldn’t be so careless. But when he reaches for his bag to hand you his treasured set of oil pastels from his homeland, he’s confused to see you walking away.

He supposes that isn’t so bad because you befriend that lost cause of an artist, Vernon because of his poor choice of words. But something amazing happens as he watches the dynamic between you push Vernon into the right direction. Minghao sees how Vernon slowly adapts your interests and enthusiasm. Sure, he had an eccentric grasp completely different from what you expect of him but he’s making decent marks in class for someone who had wandered into the wrong major.

Minghao knows it's too late to switch his seat so he makes it a point to come early the next year to sit next to you. And once he’s within your space, he’s suddenly at a loss of what to say. So instead, he chose to introduce himself knowing full well after that it was stupid. You looked at him in offense, and he just stared. He knew you more than your name. He knew your art style, he knew you were not fond of contemporary artists, and he knew you didn’t cook often with how much you do take outs with Vernon. 

Still, he managed to offend you in three words.

But he learns more about you just by being your seatmate and observing. He learned that you like creating peonies when it comes to a session of free drawing. He reads your mood from the lilt of your voice when you speak. He learned that when you’re particularly relaxed and painting, you sometimes hum. He learned that you were a caring friend with how often you’d check in on Vernon’s progress and patiently answer his questions. He learned about your perfectionism and how it both maximizes and hinders your potential.

He also learned that you hated it when he spoke to you, especially when it came to your art. But he figured that he’d settle for your irritated glare and acerbic tone if it meant that you were being challenged.

Because Xu Minghao learned early on that you tend to obsess over the result of your art, perfecting it rather than counting the process as part of art itself. Besides, watching you slowly fall prey to your perfectionism and burnout was also watching you fall away from what art means to you—which was to monumentalize the beauty of living.

Not something that resonates with himself, but if it mattered to you, then he wouldn’t take that away from you.

Over the course of the two years he’s within your orbit, he’s content with the dynamic he’s established with you. It was fun for him most days and he doesn’t truly wonder why he’s adamant in being in your world. If his interest in you meant more than just friendly rivalry, he wasn’t afraid of whatever it would mean.

And the warmth overflowing in his chest as he watches you get ready in his bathroom is undeniably there to stay for the long run.

It’s been nearly three months since that fateful night you kissed. He still blushes at the thought of how desperate he was he hadn’t been careful with his clay covered hands. Now the smashed-in vase and your stained clothes had been immortalized as trinkets. You insisted on having the vase fired and glazed for your exhibit, and to keep your stained shirt as your go-to shirt when throwing clay since you developed a new found love for ceramics.

“Hi,” you grin, giving him a sweet kiss on the cheek when he welcomes you into his embrace. You had stayed the night after another late night to finish setting up your respective exhibits. You’ve done that more often the past month. While Minghao insists you could still wear his clothes, he’s not opposed to the idea of having to clear out the bottom of his dresser for your clothes and keeping a set of your toiletries in the bathroom.

You asked him once if he felt you were both going too fast or if he’d one day regret you. You’ve hated him longer than you realized you didn’t. On the other hand, Minghao was never afraid of whatever would become of his feelings towards you. 

“I feel like I know you in a way that my soul had found home in you before you even knew it was yours.”

You had turned bright red, punched his arm and called him cheesy because he hadn’t even told you he loved you yet he easily spoke poetry of how he felt. He chuckles and kisses your forehead, 

“But isn’t that better than I love you?”

Minghao holds you in a loose embrace, tucking a hair behind your ear with a tender smile, “Are you ready for today?”

You hum, resting your chin on his collarbone, “Are you?”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you softly, “You did so well, baobei. Your grandfather would be so proud of you.”

“Ah,” you quietly squeal and slap his chest, “Stop, you’ll make me cry.”

Minghao giggles, pressing an apologetic kiss to your cheek, “Alright, alright.”

“I’m excited to see yours,” you tell him, winding your arms tighter around his lithe waist, “I can’t believe you banned me from looking. I don’t even know how you managed to hide it from me.”

“It’s not that hard when your girlfriend is too busy with her own exhibit.”

“Fair.” 

And he tries not to tease the way you’re visibly glowing when he refers to you as his girlfriend.

With fifteen minutes to spare before the gallery would be open to the public, you immediately find Vernon after the exhibition briefing

“Vernon!” 

“Hey, guys,” he shoots you both a boyish grin, “It’s finally here, huh? We’re nearly done!”

“I mean, Hao and I still have our thesis to worry about but this is something huge to check off the list,” you chuckle. 

Vernon nods, looking between the two of you with a pleased grin, “I called it first.”

Minghao raises a brow, “Huh?”

You huff, feeling heat creep up your neck as you shove your friend, “Shut up, you were right okay.”

Vernon raises his hand in surrender before you shift the topic, “I’m really sorry I couldn’t help you out for your exhibit.”

He waves his hand, “Hey, I told you I got it, okay? I had to eventually be independent from my art parents and make you proud.”

You scrunch your nose at the term and Vernon teases Minghao that he should stop rubbing off on you which earns him a laugh. 

“Besides, I did get really great advice from a friend,” Vernon continues, “I think you’ll be proud.”

Raising a brow, you spare a quick glance towards your boyfriend, “By friend, do you mean Jeonghan?”

“Yup!”

“Is that why we found you both crouched at the parking lot, picking through the gravel a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah,” Vernon doesn’t even seem fazed at how odd and concerning they had seemed. “C’mon, I’ll show you!”

The times you’ve seen your friend this enthusiastic were few and far between so you both follow him to his corner of the gallery. He tells you both to close your eyes once you’re close and he leads you both by your hands. You’re curious to see what he’s come up with. You feel like it has nothing to do with painting because he gets a little too bored with it. Your guess was it had to be some sculpture or something of the like. 

“Okay, in three…two…one!”

You open your eyes to find a glass case of four rows of…rocks. They were off all different sizes, some had a natural grain and crack to them that looked like faces while some had googly eyes. But what really made them stand out was the fact that each of the rocks had their own clothes and accessories from little straw hats, poorly sewn suits, dresses, and track suits.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you…The Ore of Everyday.”

You're in between bursting both in tears and in laughter because this was truly very Vernon of him. It was endearing how his imagination and interpretation exceeds yours. The look on his face tells you he's happy and content. And all the opinions and happiness that mattered to him was his own. That was special. That was Vernon as an artist. If he was to be the next Anish Kapoor as everyone says he would be, you just know he'd be even better.

“Oh Vernon,” you sigh with a proud smile. “This looks amazing. I love the tiny little hats.”

“Right?” he lifts his fingers to your faces to show the scratches and miniscule pokes littered along them, “I think that was the most stressful part but it was worth it.”

“I like how you utilized the natural cracks in them, they really do look like faces,” Minghao commends, carefully examining each one.

“Thanks!” Vernon grins, “Compared to all our other projects, I really enjoyed doing this one.”

You smile softly, a sense of fulfillment and contentment washing over you seeing how far Vernon had come just by being himself.

“Can I see yours now?” you ask Minghao while you leisurely make your way through the gallery with linked hands.

He hums, pretending to think and you pout, already antsy and excited to see what he was so adamant on keeping from you. He laughs before squeezing your hand, “Of course, you can.”

Minghao leads you to his own corner of the exhibition with an unhurried pace. 

“I want you to look at each piece alright, baobei? Don’t take it all in at once.” he tells you just before you round the corner.

You nod, smiling and bouncing on your heels. With a quick glance at your surroundings, he dips his head to kiss your forehead. 

“Okay, let's go.”

He takes you to the first piece, a minimalist and simple approach to what you could recognize as a spiral staircase of your university.  The second piece was a little trippy. The canvas had been painted like a crumpled piece of paper stuck on the wall. Three-dimensional art was something you had been thoroughly intrigued with but  not something you were fond of creating. You praise your boyfriend for his understanding of  texture and the precision of his light and shadow placements. He just smiles, quietly taking in how your eyes become doe like as you look through the rest of his work. 

The next piece you see had been a painting of a woman, back turned towards you as she works on her art. You realize it had been a painting of you, and as you take in the details–the crumpled pieces of paper at the corner, an inconspicuous paper bag and an open case of charcoal at your side. You tilt your head towards him to find that he’s just content with watching you admire his work. You reach for his hand and he takes it. Giving him a grateful squeeze, you lean into his shoulder as you proceed to the next. 

This time, it's clearly a portrait of you in oil pastel and you recognize it was on the morning bus after the first time you had spent the night. The perspective was from a bird’s eye view so you’re looking up and you wonder if this is how Minghao looked at you back then. Draped in pretty warm hues and eyes bright and colorful from how the sun had hit your face. 

You giggle at the next one: a disfigured clay pot with two hand prints you recognize as yours. You may have the original smashed vase over at your exhibit but Minghao wanted to have his own too. You just didn’t think he would have it displayed in the exhibit. You want to know why he’d think this would fit the theme but you suppose that's the beauty of art, you get to decide what it meant even if it wouldn’t make sense.

The last one is the bigger piece and you bring a hand up to your mouth.

It was an oil painting of peonies spilling over the picket fence and a loosely painted child crouched next to her grandmother as they picked them—exactly how you had described your fond childhood memory to him…once. And you weren’t even dating at that time. 

“Hao…” you turn to him, at a loss for words.

“That’s how you fell in love with art, right?” he tells you softly, “You saw it in the everyday.”

You glance back at the canvas, hit with a heavy wave of nostalgia and clarity of why you loved doing what you do. You liked capturing and immortalizing moments like these with your own hands like your grandfather had. You loved looking at the world in detail, making the most mundane things romantic in your eyes, expressing them through art. 

You feel a pair of arms wrap around you, “And this is me falling in love with you.”

Minghao tenderly cups your jaw, tilting your face towards him. It’s just you and him and it reflects in the warmth of his eyes. You meet the soft plush of his lips in a loving kiss, and you stay there, at home in his embrace.

You had been sure that Xu Minghao hates you. That felt like a long time ago, before both of your perspectives shift.

Now, you’re even more sure that he loves you.

And you love him too.

tagging @najaeminluvbot @tusswrites @welcometomyoasis @christinewithluv @riceandshy

@snowcake666 @beananacake

[waldau]

heyyyy how have you been? 🥹 suddenly thought of u and i feel like i haven’t heard from you in a while

you??? thought of me???

i've been good, honestly. just super busy with irl stuff (life amirite).

now this is something i've been meaning to say for a while — i've lost interest in writing rpf for over a month now, and i don't know if or when it's coming back. i've genuinely enjoyed my time on caratblr as a writer but i feel very unmotivated to write anything related to rpf these days. i even contemplated deactivating this account but i figured there's so many people out there that still interact with my fics in some way or the other, so i thought i'll keep it up for a while more.

so this is a big thank you to every single person who's interacted with my fics thus far, left comments, poured their hearts out in the tags, saved it, rec'd it, liked it — you have made being a writer here the biggest joy i've had for the past so many months. i've genuinely giggled and kicked my feet (etc) seeing what you had to say about my works.

definitely not what you expected to hear i'm sure 🥲🥲 but thank you for thinking of me. i hope you're doing very well. ily <3

[bookyeom]

to care for you — lc

pairing: dino x reader word count: 4.4k warnings: mention of blood and injuries, mention of fainting, swearing, hurt and comfort, kissing request prompt: Okay so tumblr ate my ask 😭 but this is in response to @darkypooo’s request for Dino + “do you want to kiss?” “Yeah.”

Author’s Note: Yes, this is a Spiderman AU — but you don’t need to know much other than the bare minimum about the Spiderman universe to understand the story :) It’s set in college instead of high school, though. I’m actually so, so proud of this one, and I hope you like it!

Thanks so much for all the support on my 700 follower celebration. You guys rock! I’m doing my best to get through the requests, but there were way more than I anticipated so bear with me!

He‘s exhausted. 

It’s an exhaustion that’s begun to seep deep into his bones lately, but it feels extra heavy tonight. After a not-so-brief brush-up with some bad guys, he’s hurting in places that he didn’t know existed — even after all of his years spent studying science. He can’t remember the last time he got this hurt — to the point where even breathing is hard. All he wants to do right now is give up. He’s not sure what good he’s doing out there, anyway.

He’s exhausted, and he’s hurting all over, and honestly? All he wants to do is see you. 

He feels like that a lot these days.

He knows he’s not supposed to want you like he does, to need you like he does — for so many reasons. First and foremost, because you’re one of his closest friends — his confidante (in everything not Spiderman related, anyway), his safe place. You’re his friend, and friends aren’t supposed to love each other the way he loves you. Besides, he’s Spiderman. He’s not supposed to need anyone at all. In this line of business, feelings are a weakness.

You, thankfully, have no clue about his alter ego… or his feelings.

Well, at least you didn’t know about the superhero part. Until now, when he drags himself into his room and you’re there, curled up in his bed. He thinks he must be hallucinating. He’s too out of it to really register it at first, but then your eyes meet his from where you’re sitting up against his headboard, duvet pulled up to your chin, and he’s frozen. You blink back at him in the dim light of his room, your face lit up solely by the lamp on his bedside table.

“Chan?”

Your voice is small — so quiet that he thinks without his heightened senses he wouldn’t have been able to hear it. He can’t think straight enough to really process that his mask is off — he must have dropped it somewhere between the living room and here. All he can register before he’s stumbled back and slumped into his desk chair, eyes screwed shut from all the pain, is that you don’t look nearly as scared as he thought you would. Then everything goes black.

There’s a warm pressure against his jaw and his cheeks. 

He slowly comes to as he registers the feeling, struggling to open his eyes and find the source of the sensation. He can hear a faint voice call his name, once, twice, and when his eyes finally manage to flutter open just a little, he’s met with your concerned gaze.

“Fuck. Hi,” you mumble, and he blinks. The pure worry in your voice helps to bring him back to earth a little bit more, and he tries desperately to clear his head. How long was he out?

“Why…” He tries to speak but fails, his voice weak and his throat hoarse. 

Why are you here? 

He sees you wince when he tries to move, to shift into a more comfortable position even though he knows nothing will be comfortable right now, and your head is suddenly shaking back and forth so fast that it almost gives him whiplash.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, and he dazedly wonders why you don’t sound mad. Or frustrated. Or anything but concerned, really. He’s confused, his mind swirling even more as he tries to understand why your hands are holding his face like that. Hadn’t he kept things a secret from you for far too long to warrant your concern? Don’t you hate him now?

“I don’t know what’s going on,” you say, and Chan fights the urge to try and speak again, to blurt out everything that he’s wanted to tell you since he met you. Oblivious to his inner turmoil, you hastily continue, “but you have to tell me how to help you, Chan.”

His eyes flutter shut once more at the sound of his name coming from your lips, and he feels your thumb brush against his jaw. 

“Chan,” you say again, and you sound more panicked this time, so he does his best to calm you down. 

“Off.”

You blink at him again as he finally speaks. You’re not sure what he means, and you’re desperate to know, because you can’t look at him in pain like this any longer without doing something to help.

“Off,” he repeats hoarsely, and your eyes widen as you hastily remove your hands from his face.

“Shit, sorry!” Your eyes frantically wander across his face, searching for any damage your fingers might have caused. “I don’t know where you’re hurting, I didn’t mean to—“

As you babble on, all he can do is shake his head minutely. That’s not what he meant. The last thing he wanted right now was for you to take your hands off of him. He manages to lift a hand to press gently against his side, where a dark stain has formed. He glances down at where the material is clinging to his skin before looking back up at you. 

“Oh!” You reply, realization dawning on your face. You try to hide the flush of your cheeks. “Can you stand up to move to the bed so I can help? If not, I can—“

Already, he’s attempting to move, desperate to make any of this easier for you. He wants to apologize, to say he’s sorry, but he doesn’t know exactly what for. For not telling you? For you having to see him like this? 

You help him stand, his arm reaching to rest on your shoulders as you do. You can tell he’s trying not to hurt you with his weight, and you almost laugh — how very Chan of him. You’re grateful that in the shock of survival mode, you’ve managed to avoid for now the way you know your heart is going to break when you register seeing soft, kind, selfless Chan beaten down like this. 

Cry tomorrow, is the message your brain is sending. Figure it out tomorrow. Right now, you need to help him.

“I’m strong,” you try to joke, though it’s a weak attempt, and Chan looks at you in confusion. “You can put your weight on me,” you elaborate quietly. He understands and gives you a sheepish smile, before doing as told, though you know he doesn’t want to. 

The two of you maneuver the few steps to the edge of his bed. Chan hisses involuntarily at the pain as he sits down, and you whisper soft apologies, though he has no idea why. Once he’s down, you immediately get to work, reaching behind him to find the zipper at the top of his suit. You manage to get it down as smoothly as possible, your eyes falling to where Chan is still clutching at his side.

“This part is going to hurt like a bitch,” you tell him softly.

“That’s okay,” he says. “It always does.”

You freeze for a moment from where you were about to begin to slide the suit off of his shoulders, but Chan doesn’t seem to realize what he’s said. You feel a sharp pain in your chest as his words replay, and you blink back tears, taking a moment to steel yourself. 

It always hurts.

You don’t respond, your fingers beginning to move again, and you’re surprised that they’re not shaking. Chan shivers when your fingers brush against his skin as you begin to slide the suit over his arms and off. You ease him out of the material on his uninjured side first, before coming around to the front of him and crouching down. You meet his eyes, his brown ones clouded over with pain, and your fingers gently reach to rest on top of his hand that’s still clutching his side. You give it a squeeze and he nods in understanding, closing his eyes tight, and you help him remove his fingers from the wound. You stand back up, and begin to pull the rest of the suit down his side and to his waist. Chan barely lets out so much as a whimper when you peel the rest of the material off of him. 

His lack of reaction is not what surprises you the most, though. The biggest surprise comes when you reach the spot on his side where you know a sickening amount of blood should be, and you find that it’s all dried — and that the wound has already begun to heal over. 

Huh?

Your brain can’t compute it. You glance up at him in complete confusion, but his head is hung low, and your heart breaks enough to distract you from all of the questions you want to ask. You force yourself to push the confusing mess of thoughts away until later. You can’t think about any of that right now. You can’t. 

“Chan?” Is what you say instead, knowing that you need to keep him awake enough to help him clean up, long enough to know he’s alright. Your hands are on his knees as you kneel between his legs and peer up at him. You have to stop yourself from reaching out to trace the newly-forming scars on his chest and arms, wanting nothing more than to kiss each mark and its associated pain away. You desperately want to know what happened, who hurt him like this, but you’re not sure you can handle it. You briefly register the older, faded scars that mark his skin, unsure of where they end and the new ones begin. 

You can’t figure it out — in front of you sits Chan, but it can’t be the Chan you know. It can’t be the one who giggles at your stupid jokes or falls asleep in your 8am lectures, or the one who remembers your coffee order every single time. The one who you swore had never fought with anyone in his life. The Chan in front of you looks so broken that you can’t put the two of them together. 

“You… okay?”

Your eyes shoot up to meet his again as he speaks, voice cracking and hoarse. Your heart stutters a bit in your chest as he attempts to look down at you, his eyes hooded over and half closed with the effort. He looks like he’s about to fall over, and still, he’s asking if you’re okay.

You’re hit so hard with sudden emotion that it causes you to inhale sharply without warning. Your hand lifts involuntarily to brush his hair back from where it’s falling into his eyes, and as he continues to try and hold your gaze, you register it all. This Chan is still your Chan. It’s the same Chan that has stirred feelings inside your chest that you were certain you could never feel again. The Chan whose intelligence and kindness still astounds you every single day. This Chan and your Chan are the same.

Your head spins.

When you finally make it to the bathroom, it’s all Chan can do to slouch down onto his bathroom floor. You help him out of the rest of his suit before crouching down beside him, wracking your brain for everything you’ve ever learned about cleaning wounds. You remain numb as he gives you single-word answers to where things are in his bathroom. It’s funny — you’ve been in his apartment so many times, but you’ve never needed to know where the antiseptic was. 

Chan’s eyes remain half-open as you work. He’s fighting with all his might, you can tell, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time. You don’t think his gaze leaves you even once. It becomes monotonous: you clean the cut, he winces, you apologize. And repeat. Your mind wanders in what you’re sure is an attempt to protect yourself.

You’d come over tonight for your weekly movie night, letting yourself in with the code you’d long since been given access to. When hours had passed with no sign of Chan and no texts from him either, your heart had broken a little — had he forgotten? Was he okay? It was so unlike him that you’d stayed just in case, your heart racing with every little noise as you waited. 

You hate so much that your worst fears had come true.

Chan’s pain seems to ease in record time, bruises forming on his skin faster than you’ve ever seen. You have so many questions, but you push it all down, down, down. He falls asleep on his couch and you stay up all night, blanket pulled around your shoulders as you sit on the windowsill and make sure he’s still breathing. 

He wakes as the sun is beginning to rise, and you watch as he shifts to sit up, letting out a breath of what sounds like relief when he’s able to move without much trouble. Some of the cuts on his face and chest are already scabbed over. 

How?

When his eyes finally land on you, he jumps a little.

“Hi.”

”You didn’t sleep.”

It’s an observation rather than a question. You pull your knees up and rest your chin on them. “I was worried.”

It’s quiet, and he doesn’t know what to say. Neither do you.

“Well,” he clears his throat. “I’m glad you stayed.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is small, and he immediately feels guilty.

“I’m sorry.” He’s not sure what he expects you to do, what he expects you to say. You level him with your gaze, searching his face. Your eyes linger on the scabbed-over cut just above his brow, and you bite your lip before you speak again.

“It was…” You can feel your lower lip start to tremble in an act of betrayal, and you bite down on it to try and stop yourself from crying. “It was terrifying to see you like that, Chan,” you finally manage, and you know that after all these hours, the dam is about to break. You can tell he knows it, too, by the way his brows furrow even more, and his eyes widen just slightly.

“I know,” he murmurs, and that’s what does it.

Your hands move to cover your face as you finally let yourself cry, sobs muffled by your palms. You can hear the couch creak as Chan moves, and you can feel his presence as soon as he’s close. He whispers your name once, his voice breaking, and when he moves your hands away from your face, you don’t have the strength to stop him. He’s sitting next to you on the windowsill now. You sniffle, eyes looking anywhere but at him. Chan holds onto your wrists, rubbing gentle circles against the skin. 

“I’m so mad at you,” you finally say, and he lets go of your hands. He doesn’t retreat to his side of the window though, staying put as he nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks down.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you,” he says, voice quiet. “I hope you understand why I couldn’t… but you still have every right to be pissed at me.”

It’s silent, and you stare at him in disbelief. There are so many thoughts running through your head, and it takes you a moment to settle on just one. “You think I’m mad because you didn’t tell me that you were Spiderman?” You finally say, causing him to look at you again in surprise.

“I mean, yeah? Why else—“

“I’m mad,” you emphasize, “because you’re out there getting hurt, and my heart literally can’t take the thought of that, oh my god, Chan.” Your voice breaks, and fuck, you’re about to cry again, but you can’t stop. Your eyes trace over his face, pausing where the bruise is starting to form on his cheek, and you feel frustration begin to build again as you angrily blink back tears. “What the fuck, Chan. Why the hell are you… I mean, if I hadn’t been able to help you last night, I wouldn’t — I just, I can’t even imagine—“

Your words are cut off as Chan’s hands find the side of your face. His gaze is firm as he looks at you, and his sudden boldness catches you off guard, your words dying in your throat. Once he seems to realize that you’re not going to run, his thumb moves to caress your jaw, and you can’t help the shiver that spreads through you at the gentle touch. Your hands lift to rest on his arms where they’re holding you, and you’re speechless, your eyes unable to leave his. He takes in a deep breath, and you follow.

“I’m here,” he says, and you draw in another shaky breath. You don’t think he’s ever been this forward with you before, but you’re grateful for it. He’s warm, and he’s here. He’s alive.You’re torn between wanting to never leave his side again, and needing desperately to be away from him so that you can think.

“I think it might be good for me to go now that I know you’re okay,” you say softly after a moment, and you can see the hurt that briefly shadows his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, though, and he nods, removing his hands from your face. 

“I understand.”

“And I… I probably need some time.”

He nods again, and your heart breaks at the thought of leaving him, but you have to. For now. Your feet feel leaden as you get up, going through the motions as you grab your backpack from the hook by his door. You barely register putting on your shoes, your mind on autopilot until it’s broken by his voice from just behind you.

“Y/N?”

Your name coming from his lips feels like a punch to the gut, and you almost reach out for him again, but you hold firm.

”Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. Can you just…” he sucks in a breath. “Can you please not tell anyone? About, you know—”

His words hit like a ton of bricks. You cut him off, expression full of silent fury at the insinuation. “Yeah. I won’t.” 

You’re pissed that he even had to ask, and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he can do. His secret is more important than anything — he just wishes it didn’t have to be more important than you. 

It takes three days for you to end up back at his door. He’s missed all of your shared college courses so far this week, and you’re worried. You’re terrified, actually, and you need to see him.

When he opens the door, you do a double take. It’s almost like nothing happened to him at all. The bruises and cuts are barely-there, and you’re reminded of the miles-long list of questions you have stored in the back of your brain. He’s surprised to see you, you can tell, and he blinks slowly before stepping aside to let you in.

“How are you?” You level him with raised eyebrows as you take off your shoes, and he nods, biting his lip. “Yeah, I know. I was worried that—“

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you interrupt. “Don’t worry.” You look down, your heart twisting painfully in your chest when you remember the words he’d said to you. ‘Can you please not tell anyone?’ You cross your arms as you head over to the living room, but you don’t sit down. You don’t really know what your plan had been — you’d just needed to see him. 

“Oh,” comes his soft reply before he adds, “I mean… I didn’t really think that you would.”

Your eyes briefly meet his across the room, confused, before you recover and look back down at the floor. “So then what were you worried about?”

You can feel his gaze intent on your face. “You.”

Your breath catches and your eyes swiftly meet his again. You blink. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Chan,” you say after a moment, trying to push down the bubble of irritation you feel building in your chest. “You didn’t even text me once.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he says quietly, “You said that you needed time.”

“To process, yes! But you didn’t even text me that you were okay. I was worried about you, Chan. Why would you be worried about me? I’m not the one coming through your window and fainting from injury, now am I?”

You can see the guilt flicker across his face. “I know,” he says, and then he suddenly feels the need to apologize again. “I’m sorry that I didn’t message you, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.” He pauses. “Ever again, maybe.”

You can hear the sadness in his voice, and your heart breaks. You feel the anger in you start to dissipate as he looks away from you. Your eyes catch on the barely-there faded scar across his eyebrow, and your mind is filled with painful memories of the Chan you’d seen that night. 

“You’re so fucking stupid, Chan.” 

He knows. But judging by the way you sit down on his couch instead of storming out again, he thinks that somehow, his stupidity has already been forgiven. 

It’s quiet as he joins you. You can feel him looking at you, and when you can’t take it anymore, you look back at him pointedly. He blushes, quickly looking away when your eyes meet. You sigh, your head falling into the back of the couch before you turn and curl up against it, your eyes drifting shut. 

"Is that my sweater?" 

Your eyes shoot open, and it's as if he's finally grown the courage to look at you directly again now. His brown eyes search yours, and he motions to the shirt you're wearing. You look down — even though you know he's right — and your cheeks are on fire. You’re wearing the sweater he’d leant you forever ago on a cold night for your walk home — the one you’d never returned. You slept in it almost every night, and he hadn’t asked for it back. 

"Keeps me warm," you mumble, tugging on the hem. It's silent for a beat before you continue, voice even quieter than before. You pause, ruminating on your next words before you take a deep breath and say, “The last few nights, wearing it kind of made me feel like you were safe.”

You can hear his intake of breath before he says, soft, “Are you mad at me?”

You shake your head, because you’re not. You’re scared, stressed, worried sick — but you’re not mad. Not anymore. “No, Chan.”

The nickname sends a flood of relief through him more than your actual reply does. 

“I’m not mad,” you continue, “because of course you’re Spiderman. Of course you’re putting yourself in danger trying to protect others. I love how selfless you are, Lee Chan — I always have. But me? I’m selfish. And I’m scared to death of losing you.”

All he says, all he can say, is, “I’m scared, too.”

You look at him again now. You search his face as you ask, “Of what?”

“Of getting hurt. Of… of losing you, too.”

Your heart is suddenly beating so fast you think it might soon break free from your rib cage. You don’t know why you say it, because you’ve already got his undivided attention, but his name comes out breathlessly anyway. “Chan?” 

“Yeah?” He’s looking at you with those beautiful, big, questioning eyes, and you can’t help it. 

“I think it might be a terrible time for me to say this,” you blurt out, “but I — Chan, I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Chan blinks.

“Wait, what?”

Your face flushes, and it’s your turn to look away. “Sorry,” you murmur.

“No, don’t — oh my god. What?”

You’re not sure what he wants from you. You’re embarrassed now, pulling your knees up to your chest in a feeble attempt to protect yourself from your feelings. Your face is flushed as you turn to look out the window, and you can almost hear Chan’s brain buffering as he remains silent.

“Do you mean that?”

“Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” Your voice comes out a bit harsher than you intend it to, but you don’t take it back. 

“I…” He trails off. He doesn’t say anything more, and the quiet is almost deafening. You’re finding it a little harder to breathe as the seconds pass, and you wrack your brain for something, anything to say to fill the stifling silence.  

“I’m going to go,” is what comes out, and then you’re standing up so abruptly that you feel a little dizzy. The scene is familiar — you, running from what you’re feeling, running from him. 

“Wait,” he blurts out, and you do. You pause in spite of everything in you that’s begging you to run, and then he says, “Can I… I mean, do you want to… kiss?”

You turn back, eyes wide. It’s such a ridiculous question, such an innocent thing for him to ask in light of everything that’s happened in the last few days — but it’s so Chan that you almost forget about it all. This is probably a bad idea, you both know that — and you don’t care. You don’t know how this is going to work, but you’ll figure it out. 

Because it’s your Chan — the one who cares so much, the one who gives you hope, the one who wants nothing but for the world to be a better place.

“I mean — I love you too,” he says into the silence, and you realize that you haven’t given him an answer.

“Yes,” you breathe out before he can panic. “Fuck. I have so many questions, but first, yes. Yes, I want to kiss you, Lee Chan.”

You can hardly believe the giggle and shy smile he sends your way before he kisses you breathless. 

Yeah, you think to yourself as he pulls back, as your fingers lift to gently trace the barely-there bruise on his cheek, as he leans into the warmth of your hand. As you think about how he’s been doing all of this — trying to change the world — alone.

Yeah, you think. You’ll figure it out. 

TAGLIST: @waldau @minisugakoobies @tae-bebe @gyuminusone @wqnwoos @wheeboo @christinewithluv @lvlystars @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @iluvseokmin @seohomrwolf @pan-de-seungcheol @bewoyewo @kyeomkyeomi @mingyuscoffee @harry-the-pottypus @lightprincess-world @icyminghao @bella-l @darkypooo

[eternalgyu]

I wanted to start a tag game because im bored :3 and there's this website trending on to that shows u ur kpop idol look alikes!! 🦋

tagging: @slytherinshua @dolloie @ywnzn @yawnznn @jelllijeans @taroism @wooshinim @weird-bookworm @blue-jisungs @wheeboo @haecien @hursheys + anyone else is free to join!!

[weird-bookworm]

JESSI KEY HARVEY YEONHEE AND FUCKING JUN I DONT LOOK THAT GOOD WTFFFF

tagging: @fairyhaos @slytherinshua @blue-jisungs @wheeboo @mesanthropi @haecien @glosskirt @etherealyoungk @welcometomyoasis @aaniag @thepoopdokyeomtouched @arafilez @nonononranghaee @mangocustard16 @kkooongie @rubywonu @icyminghao

[haecien]

The feminine genes are geneing...

Tagging — @slytherinshua @wollycobbl3-blr/ @mesanthropi @glosskirt @mangocustard16 @arafilez @welcometomyoasis + any of my other moots and anyone else who wants to try!!!

[welcometomyoasis]

thanks for the tag guys!! @haecien we both have seoyeon, does that mean we look similar? 😅

Tagging (no pressure): @wonijinjin @tomodachiii @starshuas @addicsvt @hursheys and anyone else who wants to join!

[tomodachiii]

CHOI MINHOOOOOO. My first bias 😭i knew we were meant to be agdkflgl. Okay so im more on the masculine features ?😂😭

Thanks for the tag, shu 🩷🫰🏻

Tagging (no pressure ofc) @wheeboo @najaeminluvbot @waldau @svtiddiess +any one else who wants to do it!!

[waldau]

VERNON? CHANGBIN? KEY? MINHO? how on earth. please. what.

[jeonsupershy]

💘💖💗💓

[waldau]

congrats on your new milestone!! i really enjoy reading your work♡ could i please request mingyu+'we're in completely different leagues'+'i'm not sober enough to talk about this'

just the two of us — kim mingyu | 7,009 words | hurt/comfort, fluff

i typed up a mammoth sized story (to me, at least) because i had so many thoughts. behold my longest fic ever written, patiently beta-read by the wonderful @tomodachiii. thank you for your help, tomo! ily <3 and thank you, anon, for your request!

gender neutral reader. warnings: reader has massive self-doubt, gets drunk halfway through the story.

“the next time i even think of going on a date, just take my phone and force me to go out on a walk. reconnect with nature. touch some grass, maybe,” you say, kicking your feet against mingyu’s cupboard from where you’re sat on his counter.

“did you have a bad date i wasn’t aware of? was it the guy with the blue streaks?” mingyu asks, pushing the bowl of cake batter towards you. he never shies away from reminding you of the repercussions of having raw dough — that too in excruciating detail. salmonella. e. coli. things he could skip but doesn’t, just because he likes annoying you.

he lets it slide this time. you’re allowed just one big spoon, and the next time you’ll see the rest of it is when it’s baked and topped off with handmade frosting. courtesy of kim mingyu. your best friend as well as part-time chef.

“…no.”

“don’t lie to me,” he says, tilting his head. “you wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.”

“ugh. it’s just that…every time i even think of going out on a date, i have to reset my expectations. because men can’t clear the bar, no matter how low it is.”

you take a nibble from the spoon, and it tastes so damn good. it’s crazy how mingyu manages to find time to make new recipes and perfect them despite being a world-famous model that’s modelled for almost every major fashion house. you’ve lost count of how many magazines he’s been on.

it started out as a joke when you complained about all the magazines for his first ever gig having sold out. he’d taken it upon himself to get you a very special, signed copy that you have on display with the rest of the books in your glass bookcase. just the one, though. the rest of them are all piled up under your coffee table, much to mingyu’s chagrin. at least they’re in chronological order. and you’re making sure they’re not collecting dust.

that first edition is pretty much the only thing mingyu ever teases you about, tattered as it is, and on display for whoever comes to visit you. but you’d never get rid of it, not even for a new copy. it’s a milestone mingyu deserves to be celebrated for.

“does it taste good?” he asks with a small smile and a nervous smile. as if you’d have anything except praises to heap on him. this isn’t even the first time you wonder if he’d talk like this to you if you were together — endless smiles and warm cuddles under the covers and conversations about the most random things and stolen hoodies because you’re actually dating, and not just you being a guilty friend whose imagination runs a bit wild sometimes.

he does all of those with you. but he just doesn’t like you the way you like him.

how would he be, when he’s the kim mingyu? he has his fans falling to their feet if he so much as posts a picture of his hand. he’s the most charming human being you know. he’s tall not just because of his genes but also because of all the love he holds for everyone he knows.

you’re another moon that gets to orbit in the path of the admirable planet that he is.

sometimes you don’t even know how you managed to remain friends with him after university ended. the two of you started off as being part of the same friend group, having a few shared classes and some interests that kept the two of you together apart from your friends. by the time you graduated, both of you knew enough about each other to be able to hang out without needing your mutual friends. and it was hardly your fault that you felt drawn to how warm mingyu was, how easy it was to talk to him, and how happy you felt just by being around him.

so when it came to the topic of finding a place to live, the two of you decided it would be better for you to be roommates than find a complete stranger to share a living space with, and you went from friends to best friends soon after that.

mingyu’s always been your support system for whatever you’ve wanted to do, encouraging you to do what you wanted, regardless of how it would turn out or what others would think of it. in the same way, it wasn’t anything when you encouraged him to try out a modelling gig he’d signed up for and was unsure of how he’d fare.

long story short, the shoot was a pretty good success, and soon enough he got multiple gigs, managed to earn enough money to move into a bigger house, and even offered to pay your part of the rent because he wanted you to live with him — something that made you smack him.

you no longer live together now, mainly because of mingyu’s insistence on not wanting to disturb your sleep and your daily routine with all the schedules that keep him flying over the world. you did miss the breakfast he’d make for the two you every morning, and you’d managed to work out a compromise where mingyu became your personal chef on saturdays just so he’d have some time to spend with you.

it’s far from the worst arrangement in the world, and moments like these — him putting icing on your nose — make you realize how lucky you are to have him. you generally watch movies together, or he teaches you recipes, or he listens to you talk about your life, reciprocating with his own stories. things haven’t changed that much, even though you don’t live together anymore.

but part of you wishes things did change. that mingyu would, just once, look at you the way you look at him. it’s a wonder he hasn’t once caught you staring at him, because you’ve done that more times than you can count. but you can’t help it, because he just so happens to be your whole world.

but how long is this utopia going to last for? when is he going to realize you’re just plain old you, and that maybe he’s suited for more glamorous company? people who can probably pronounce the names of all his fashion houses correctly, people he models with, people that can hang off his arm and look like they belong there? not people who like wearing shorts and an old shirt as pyjamas and have bouts of self-doubt strong enough to crush entire mountains?

“…is it that good? you zoned out a bit there,” mingyu says, snapping his fingers in front of your eyes.

you blink out of your daydreams. it’s not even his fault that you’re so head over heels for him, although it kind of is. no one asked him to be so good looking and polite and so damn lovely that it became easy to imagine a future with him. just like lee youngji can imagine having a future with hong jisoo because he opened a carton of milk for her, you wonder how you haven’t yet succumbed to those thoughts when mingyu is such a big part of your life. you wonder at what point you knew you were fucked.

maybe it was when you and mingyu became friends, although you’ll never know for sure.

“no.”

“are you sure?”

“your ego doesn’t need to get any bigger,” you quip, finishing off the rest of your spoon.

he just laughs. “good to know. let’s just wait for an hour till it finishes baking, okay?” he hands you a baking sheet to line the pan with. you work in silence as he fiddles with the knobs on the oven, ladling out the batter into the pan and sticking it inside once the oven’s warmed up enough.

“want to do something while it bakes? watch a movie?”

“i was thinking we could go for a walk,” mingyu says, taking off his apron. he looks ridiculous, a hulking six foot two man wearing an apron that’s comically small for him, but he takes kitchen etiquette very safely. he hangs it up on the hook behind the door. “the weather’s good, and i don’t think i’ve been out for a walk in a while.”

“what about all those texts you sent me about missing bobpul? i wonder what your fans would’ve thought of that.”

“you’re not supposed to bring that up,” he whines, and you can’t help the giggle that makes its way to your face. he’s a grown man. and he’s the most adorable one you know. “that was a moment of weakness.”

“and you trusted me with it.”

“because i trust you.”

“i…fine,” you sigh, because what can you really say to that? “it’s cute, that’s all.”

mingyu wiggles his eyebrows. “you think i’m cute?”

“i swear—”

“kidding!” he walks you out of the kitchen, hands on your shoulders, and you love it as much as you wish he didn’t do it. “we’ll be back within the hour. the cake should be ready by then.”

he hands you one of his hoodies that’s lying on the sofa before you head out. you look up at him when he presses the fabric into your hands.

“it’s cold,” he explains, but it’s muffled by the messy way he’s pulling his hoodie over his head.

“and i can deal with the cold just fine.”

“no, you’re going to stick your cold toes on my legs when we sit down to eat, and i’m not going to bear that. even if you’re my best friend.”

and no matter what excuse you make to avoid wearing mingyu’s clothes, it’s never enough. he has to see you bundled up to make sure you’re not going to freeze in front of him, although that’s a tad bit dramatic. this is one of his newer hoodies, and you can tell by the way it doesn’t smell like him just yet. maybe it’s a good thing. maybe you can stop thinking about him like that. one step at a time.

“some best friend you are,” you mumble, wearing your shoes. you look up and mingyu’s frowning at you. not the usual way; there’s a tiny frown that would’ve been imperceptible if you didn’t know him the way you do, but you’re not going to ask what’s up. he tells you things if they’re really bothering him, so you’re going to let him let you know in his own time.

he wasn’t wrong. it really is windy. you’re glad he made you wear the hoodie. you pull the sweater paws over your palms, loving the way your palms instantly become warm. mingyu flips the hood over your head and you’re about to thank him for it before he draws the strings together and ends up blacking out your vision. he finds it funny for about two seconds till you stumble blindly and end up jostling him in the stomach.

he's still wincing when you undo the strings, and you can’t help but laugh. “sorry, gyu.”

“are you, though?”

“…no.”

“thought so.”

“was it my fault?”

“no,” he says, and smiles, and you feel your heart flutter again. “not your fault.” it’s so pretty. even his smile’s so pretty. you love his canines, his little fangs that he feels weird about sometimes. if it were up to you, you’d do anything to make him love them just as much as you did, even if that something were kissing.

whoa. not again. not when he’s with you.

“so, about failed dates,” he says, looking at you. “are you actually looking for something, or do you just…go on them to pass your time?”

mingyu does this thing where he can read you to filth without even trying. it’s like he knows what’s running in your mind, or at least has the vaguest idea of it, and he says things that are basically truths you don’t want to admit to yourself out of fear of not knowing what to do about them.

“why does it matter?” you ask, a bit defensive.

he frowns. again, that little frown. you wish you could remove it. “because there’s so many other things you could be doing to spend time instead of creeping yourself out every time you go on a date. and you don’t need to keep getting yourself hurt like that if it isn’t leading to anything.”

“are you dating someone?”

mingyu pffts. “what, i can’t have advice for you without being in a relationship?”

“no,” you say immediately, backtracking. of course he can. “sorry. i know you didn’t mean anything by it, but…”

“but?”

“i just wish i—”

you’re cut off by the sudden bark of a dog. you look around to find the source of the sound only to see a dog running around in circles with its leash in its mouth. it looks adorable.

“hey, buddy,” you say, crouching down in front of it. it looks up at you and barks. a happy little yip! before it continues running along in circles.

“are you lost?” mingyu asks softly, crouching down next to you. he reaches out a hand to pet its head, and the puppy leans into his touch completely. it looks familiar for some reason.

“do you have any idea whose dog this is?” mingyu asks. you shake your head. maybe you’ve seen a dog like this, not the dog itself, but you’re really not sure. he’s in the process of searching the dog’s collar, but someone yelling in the distance makes him pause. he gets up and tugs the dog by its collar. it has the name tag jamie inscribed on it.

the person yelling out for jamie is none other than one of your neighbours. you know her well. as well as you can for someone you don’t interact much with. not if you can help it.

she’s the kind of neighbour that always pokes her nose into matters that don’t bother her, the neighbour that outright shows she’s not interested in something if it doesn’t get her anything. the two times you tried to initiate a conversation with her as you waited for the elevator to reach your floor are a stark reminder of the fact that she’s not the kind of person you’d ever be friends with. you don’t know what you’ve done to rub her the wrong way, but she doesn’t look like she’ll even give you a chance.

you watch as mingyu hands over the dog to her, and once she’s done making sure jamie’s okay, she looks him up and down.

you don’t blame her. you’d do the same, a bit more subtly, but it does sting to see the way she’s probably the kind of person he should be hanging out with.

“thanks for finding jamie,” she says, all smiles. she really doesn’t need to be smiling that much.

“no worries,” mingyu says with a smile of his own. “and it wasn’t me who found jamie, by the way. it was them.” he points to you with a jerk of his thumb. you smile at her, but feel icy inside when she looks you up ad down.

“oh. are they your…” she trails off with a smile on her face that screams no fucking way. you suddenly wish you could just run back to your apartment and leave the two of them down here.

“partner? you think so?”

“just…you two look like opposites, that’s all. sometimes opposites don’t attract, but you never know. life’s funny sometimes.” she simpers a little, and your hands ball up into fists by your side.

what you don’t expect is for mingyu to throw his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into himself. “yes, actually,” he says, leaning into you in a way that most definitely exaggerates your height difference. “you could call them my better half. and don’t they look good in this hoodie? it’s mine, by the way,” he says, and you can recognize the smile on his face — it’s a fake one, the corporate one he adopts when he’s in a situation he doesn’t like.

his words keep buzzing in your mind as you walk past your neighbour and back upstairs to your apartment. he’d said you were a couple so easily, even though you were not. better half? really? the way he’d leaned into you so easily, the fact that he told her it was his hoodie. it’s…weird. and too much for you.

you don’t speak much as you help mingyu remove the cake from the oven, getting it ready for frosting. he manages to get an indignant sound when he manages to get some on your cheek this time, but the rest of the evening is spent thinking about the interaction you had.

is it really so unbelievable for people to imagine the two of you together?

“hey,” he says, bumping your side with his. except he miscalculates his strength (or does it on purpose) and ends up making you stumble a few steps away from him. you don’t even have it in you to be mad when you see the giggle on his face. “you good?”

“yes. sorry,” you say, opening the refrigerator to take out the food mingyu had made last night. he cooks enough to feed a family of four even though you’re the only one that lives at your place, so it’s useful for when you don’t feel like cooking.

“who was she?” mingyu asks, setting down the plates on the table. “a friend?”

you shudder at the thought of her being your friend. “a neighbour. she lives in the flat down mine. she’s not really the kind of person i’d be friends with, but jamie’s cute. i keep seeing him around sometimes.”

“hmm.” you get the smell of reheated noodles as mingyu works at the stove. “she was…weird.”

“that’s an understatement.”

“is she always like that?”

“rude?”

“yeah. that’s not something you’d say to a couple you see, even if you don’t like them.”

“she certainly doesn’t seem to care,” you say, a bit more forceful than necessary, setting down two glasses as well.

“well, i think we’d make a cute couple,” mingyu says, a little smile on his face as he reaches out to ruffle your hair.

you swear your heart dies a little right then and there. you stare at him unblinkingly. “do you ever hear the stuff that comes out of your mouth?” you ask, regaining your bearings and filling the glasses with water.

“sorry,” mingyu says, sheepishly. “i just don’t like the idea of anyone talking like that. especially with you. especially when you’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

your heart warms at that. “thank you, gyu,” you say, reaching out to squeeze his arm. bad idea. you’d forgotten how much he’s been working out recently, and how big he is. “i’m glad i could one-up her this time.”

“just call me the next time you want to do it again.”

“yeah, sure.”

the rest of the night is spent watching this show that’s been on your watchlist for a while, and you don’t mind if mingyu conks out in the middle of it.

sure enough, you hear his soft snores after you finish your dessert, and you turn to see this big man that’s also your best friend craning his neck on the sofa as he tries to keep himself in the blanket that’s certainly not big enough for the two of you.

sometimes you wonder if he’d cuddle with you to save space and keep himself warm, and this also happens to be one of those times. You get up and reposition him as gently as you can, so that his back doesn’t hurt in the morning. His nose twitches when you rest a hand on his hair, wishing him a silent goodnight.

It's not the first time you wish you could kiss him, dangerous as that thought is.

you can’t stop thinking about the interaction you had a few days ago. sure, your neighbour isn’t someone whose behaviour you’d count on to matter, but was she right when she said she can’t see two people like you together? people as opposite to each other as you and mingyu?

sure, you’re not the usual kind of crowd he hangs out with, but is it so bad to imagine something between the two of you? was that just the sign to stop thinking about mingyu, get over him and resign yourself to a life without love?

as much as you complain about going on dates, there’s something that’s your fault too — you look for mingyu everywhere. none of the men you’ve gone on dates with are mingyu, and that’s the crux of the problem. none of them smile the way he does, none of them give you their jacket when you’re feeling cold, and it’s unfair for you to expect them to understand everything about you.

you can’t have mingyu, and you’re going to have to learn to accept that.

Which is why you’re at this party with your friend seungkwan. it’s not your usual scene — you’d much rather be curled up in bed with a book and some takeout, or cleaning your bookshelf while listening to music on the television — but you’re not complaining. seungkwan was right. you need to let go once in a while, just enjoy yourself before you inevitably spend weeks together keeping to yourself, immersed in your work.

“dance with me!” seungkwan yells out to you over the din of the crowd.

“i can’t dance! not like you!”

“that hardly matters! let’s have some fun, come on!”

seungkwan is nothing if not persistent. finishing off the last of the drink, you let him lead you out onto the dance floor. he rests his hands on your shoulders as he sways you to the music. it’s fast paced and something you’d be caught doing in the privacy of your own house, your own little concert, and for once you don’t care about the fact that people can see you. you’re lost in your own little world with seungkwan, and more importantly, you’re happy. the stress of whatever the fuck happened last week between you and mingyu, with him calling himself your boyfriend without knowing how down bad you are for him, is pushed to the back of your mind as the beat changes. seungkwan starts clapping to the rhythm, making you realize you’re dancing by yourself.

you’re not half bad at this. a little under confident, sure, but not bad. you could try making this a monthly thing and having fun with it.

eventually you end up too exhausted to dance to another song, and seungkwan guides you to a seat, your shoes in his hand as he asks you to catch your breath and wait for a while more till he finishes dancing with some other people.

you’ve ordered a basic drink for yourself when someone slides in next to you. you don’t pay them much attention, focusing on relaxing a bit and finishing your drink, but you have to turn around and look at them when you can actually feel their eyes piercing into your side and— boy, is he a sight for sore eyes.

he looks boyishly handsome, completely in place in this club as he watches you with his chin resting in his hand, eyes glinting in the light of the fixture above the two of you. he’s pretty, and just as handsome, and his eyes are the loveliest shade of brown you’ve ever seen.

“saw you dancing out there,” he says, his words a bit of a drawl, and accented. “you were pretty good.”

“you don’t need to lie if you’re trying to flirt,” you jest, finishing your drink.

“i’m not in the habit of lying,” he says, smiling at you. “you looked like you were having fun.”

“i…was, actually,” you say. he’s still smiling, looking at you like he’s searching for something in your eyes. you feel warm. gosh.

“can i get you another drink?”

“no, thank you, actually. i need my head to remain intact if i want to get home in one piece.”

“suit yourself,” he nods, and asks the bartender for the same drink you had. the bar is in hell, but you’re impressed he backed off immediately. you watch as he makes quick work of his drink.

“so, you come here often?” he asks, wiping the back of his mouth.

“not really. my friend dragged me out tonight because he felt i needed a break from my life.”

“just a friend?” he asks, eyes following your line of vision to see seungkwan still dancing with some strangers, looking like he’s having fun.

“why, you interested?”

“depends on who you’re talking about.”

“him?”

“cute, but no.”

“me.”

“maybe.”

you trace the ring of condensation your drink’s left on the table. “but i’m not looking for anything, honestly. i’ve sworn off dating for a while.”

“that’s fine. we could just…talk.”

you look up at the man. you don’t know if this is his way of trying to get you to go home with him, but it’s the most genuine someone’s been. “you never told me your name, by the way.”

“me? vernon. nice to meet you.”

you give him your name in return, and like the way it rolls off his tongue.

“so…can i ask why you’ve sworn off dating?”

seungkwan’s still going to take a while, going by the previous times you’ve been here, and vernon definitely seems interested in talking to you.

“you ever…had a crush on your best friend?”

vernon winces — an actual wince, like he’s seen something terrible, and it makes you laugh. “yeah…once. it sucks.”

“exactly.”

“you’re trying to get over them?”

“trying being the keyword, yes.”

“then how are you trying to get over them if you’re not into dating?”

you sigh. vernon’s a perceptive one. “trying to think of other people even if i don’t necessarily go home with them. just anything to get my mind off him.”

“anything? how bored would you be if i started talking about why i think star wars is excessive but also misunderstood?”

you don’t find vernon boring, in fact. you find yourself drawn to him speaking, the way his eyes light up and his hands get a life of their own as he lists out every single point in aid of his stance, and encourages you to contribute to the conversation. it feels like he’s an old friend, and not someone you met hardly an hour ago. it’s fun.

“…so maybe we could go out to watch that movie? it’s coming out next week.”

“go out?”

“as friends, of course. i’m not looking to take someone home, either. if anything, i came here to keep my friends company, but…i think i lost them in the crowd.”

you look around, and seungkwan’s sitting at a table surrounded by a bunch of girls, and it makes you grin. he doesn’t need you sticking with him anymore.

“you were saying?”

“does next week work—”

“it doesn’t,” says a new voice. a familiar voice. there’s two hands on your shoulders, a familiar weight. “we’re hanging out at my place next week.”

“mingyu!” you exclaim, pulling him out from behind you. “don’t scare me like that.”

“sorry,” he says, not sounding the least bit sorry. “you have no idea how much time i spent searching for you only to find you hidden here.”

“why were you looking for me? how did you know i was here?”

he looks at you like you asked him something stupid. “because it’s late, and because seungkwan’s most definitely not driving you home.” ah. seungkwan must have asked mingyu to pick you up, given that he was your ride here.

“well,” you say, directing him towards your conversational partner. “this is vernon. my new friend.”

“hi,” he says, curt, and you frown. mingyu’s generally nicer.

“hey,” vernon says coolly. then he turns back to you. “can you give me your number? i’ll text you about it later, when you’re free. think i’ll search for them now.”

you hand vernon your own phone, given he’s had less drinks than you have, and it hardly takes a minute for him to enter his details before he saves his number and claps your shoulder, wishing you and mingyu a good night.

you find mingyu watching vernon making his way through the crowd. “so, who was that?”

“new friend. vernon. like i said.”

“a new friend? seriously? he just asked for your number.”

“so? he wasn’t hitting on me or anything. he just asked me so we could go see this movie we’ve been wanting to watch.”

mingyu’s eyebrows rise. “a movie? together? doesn’t that sound like…a date?”

you frown. “two friends can go watch movies, mingyu. don’t we do that all the time?”

“Yeah, but that’s because you know me. he’s just some random guy you met today. at a club.”

either mingyu’s being obtuse, or you’re not thinking correctly. “are you saying i don’t know how to read people’s intentions?”

“you’re drunk,” he says bluntly, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders. “you don’t know what he wants.”

something about his tone makes you angry. he wasn’t even here the whole evening. “as if you do. you didn’t speak to him at all, mingyu. you don’t even know what we talked about.”

“didn’t you say you wanted to stop going out on dates?”

the coldness in his voice makes you freeze. you’ve never heard him sound so hostile, not with you. “what do you mean?”

“why did i have to find out from seungkwan that you were out here at this club just a week after you asked me to make you touch grass if you so much as thought of a date?”

“but it wasn’t a date!” you exclaim, feeling more and more annoyed. to your horror, you feel tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “are you saying i’m—”

“you’re drunk. you don’t know what you want. did you seriously expect to make friends at the club of all places?”

this isn’t your mingyu. he’d never judge you the way he’s doing right now. you take his jacket and throw it on the counter, turning around and marching out. you’ll call a cab to take you to your place. you don’t need him dropping you home.

“hey,” mingyu calls out, jogging towards you, jacket in his hand. “it’s cold. take this, please?”

“i don’t care about what you have to say,” you sniff, wrapping your hands around yourself. “don’t talk to me.”

“listen, you can be angry with me all you want, but just take my jacket. i don’t want you freezing out here when you don’t need to be.”

“maybe you should’ve thought of that before saying all that shit to me,” you spit. “why do you want to talk to me now? just insult me some more, why don’t you?”

mingyu huffs, but says nothing. he just looks at you.

“come with me.”

“where?”

“to my car.”

“why should i?”

“i won’t leave you here by yourself. i want to make sure you’re safe. let me drop you home and you can be mad at me all you want. please.”

“what, your night’s going to be a waste unless i come with you?”

“no,” he says quietly, and it makes you pause. mingyu is anything but quiet. “It’s never a waste. but it’ll just put my mind at ease if i know you’re safe, okay?”

you see the logic in his words, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. “fine,” you say, taking his jacket from him and slipping it on.

“thank you,” he says, opening the passenger door for you.

the drive to your place is quiet. you can tell mingyu wants to say something, start a conversation, but you keep your eyes resolutely fixed ahead.

“come on,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt and getting out when you reach your building. you follow him upstairs to your apartment. he unlocks the door for you and makes way for you to step inside first.

“do you need water? food? anything i can get?” he asks, taking off his shoes.

you turn around to look at him. he’s big, as always, but for once it feels like he’s taking up all the space in your apartment.

“i’m not that drunk,” you say finally.

he stands up straight to look at you. “but—”

“yes, i had some drinks, but i know my limit. i had my last one just before i started talking to vernon. i hate that you thought i wasn’t capable of making my own decisions.”

he swallows. “i didn’t mean to undermine—”

“but you did! and you don’t know how terrible it feels. i’m not a baby, gyu. i know what i want and what i’m doing. i’m hurt. and,” you say, taking in a deep breath, “if you really want to know something, know this — we’re in completely different leagues.”

mingyu frowns. “what do you mean?”

“i—” there’s so much you mean. you can’t possibly recount all the thoughts you’ve had about feeling inadequate, all the nights you’ve spent wondering how long it’ll be before he realizes you’re not as cool as you should be. “i’m not sober enough to talk about this.”

“you just said you weren’t that drunk.”

“this is my home,” you say, a bit harsher than needed. “you got me here safe, and that’s all you wanted to do. this is me being mad at you, so if you respect me, you’re going to let me sleep. okay? goodnight, mingyu.”

“goodnight,” he says, and you hate how small his voice sounds. “sleep well.”

and you do sleep well. well enough that you sleep through your alarm, and wake up almost when it’s ten. at least it’s a saturday, so you’re not freaking out as you brush your teeth. you have some work to do today. and hanging out with mingyu is on the agenda as well, but you’re not sure if you’re keen on going through with it, especially after what happened last night.

if you were delusional, which you’re most definitely not, you’d say that mingyu had been jealous that you and vernon had exchanged numbers in front of him. except there’s no reason for him to be jealous. like he reminded you, you’re not looking for any relationships. there’s no one he has to compete with, so to speak.

so why was he that upset last night? and what about the things he’d said to you?

you’ve had fights before, fights that ended up with both of you not wanting to speak to each other, but this was different. he’d never been angry like this.

you’re the one who’s upset, you realize, as you walk to the kitchen to fix yourself some breakfast. you’re going to talk it out with mingyu once your head is clearer, and you’re going to see what he has to say for himself.

except mingyu’s already here. you can smell the delicious scent of tteokbokki wafting through the room. mingyu’s set out two plates, two glasses — the usual. you’re feeling woefully under dressed in front of him in your pyjamas, despite the fact that he’s seen you like this multiple times before.

“morning,” he says. his voice is hesitant. It’s never hesitant.

“hi. morning.”

“slept well?”

“yeah, better than…what exactly are you doing here?”

“cooking you breakfast,” he says, waving his spatula around.

“i can see that. i meant here. in my place. didn’t you go back home after dropping me off?”

“no. i felt too tired to drive back home, so i decided to crash out on your couch. and i’m making you breakfast now. isn’t that a win-win?”

you can see one win, but you’re not sure what the other is. you take a seat at the table and pour yourself a glass of water, wearily trying to assess the situation. mingyu had pretty much scolded you last night. like a parent who didn’t trust you to make the right choices despite having free will. and now he’s cooking you breakfast like last night just didn’t happen.

“can i ask you something?” mingyu says, pushing a plate of tteokbokki towards you along with a pair of chopsticks.

“don’t think i can stop you, can i?”

mingyu huffs. “hey. if you’re upset with me, just say no.”

“what is it?”

“what did you mean by yourself being out of my league?”

you set your chopsticks down. “you’re serious? you’re really asking me that?”

he frowns. “yes.”

“mingyu, you called yourself my boyfriend a week back. your…better half.”

“that was to make your neighbour leave. she was being weird.”

“sure. and then we went back to life like nothing had even happened.”

“because…it hadn’t? i thought we talked it out that night itself? what happened now?”

“i don’t think you understand how that made me feel. especially when you said—” you say, voice trembling. “you called yourself my boyfriend last week. like it’s something you throw around naturally. and last night you acted all…weird, as if i wasn’t allowed to have a normal conversation with someone who wasn’t you. why are you so confusing?”

“would you hear me out if i said i had a reason?”

“you’d better have a damn good reason.”

mingyu sets down his glass and looks at you. “i’m sorry for everything i said yesterday. i truly am. i didn’t mean any of it. i was just…jealous.”

that catches your attention. “jealous? of?”

“that guy. vernon. you seemed like you were having a good time talking to him and i thought about how if you got together you’d probably leave our relationship behind because you liked him so much.”

“whoa. slow down. i told you i wasn’t looking—”

“you weren’t. i know that. but the way you looked at him made me feel something.”

“what?”

“i’m saying…” mingyu takes in a deep breath, and focuses on something past your shoulder. not meeting your eyes. “i’m saying i like you.”

you blink. “i’m sorry?”

“i like you, and i was jealous because you seemed to be having so much fun talking to him. if you have to know, there’s no guy who possibly deserves you. i’m not saying i do, either, but i’ll try my best to be the guy you deserve.”

it’s still too early in the day for this. “stop joking, mingyu. i don’t want to go through it again. just—”

“i’m not!” he exclaims, coming over to your side of the table. “thinking i could be with anyone i wanted is a bold thing to say. how do you think i feel every time i go out for company dinners but all i want to do is spend time with you? have you as my plus one every time?”

your heart’s fluttering very fast. you feel almost breathless. “i wouldn’t even look that good by your side.”

“says you. have you ever seen yourself?”

“i have, actually, and i look—”

“so gorgeous,” mingyu cuts you off, eyes twinkling as he says so. as though he’d been holding onto it for so long and finally found the right time to release it. “you look exactly like the person i want to spend every single day of my life with.”

you almost expect cameras to pop up out of nowhere and film your reaction to what he’s just said. “the…rest of your life? you do know that’s…a long time, right?”

“i do. and i’ve already spent four years with you. eight, if you’re counting the time before we became best friends.”

it’s everything you’ve ever wanted to hear. what he’s offering is so close to you, just an arm’s length away, but you can’t convince yourself to reach out for it. you hide your face in your hands. “gyu…”

“i’m serious,” he says, gently peeling your hands from your face. his hands are so warm as he holds yours, and his boba eyes are so close to yours. he’s adorable. “give me one chance?”

“what if we…mess this up? what if you realize i’m not that fun to hang out with every single day?”

“what if you realize everything you're thinking is wrong? what if you realize there’s no way i’m going to let things go wrong, especially when it comes to you?”

you don’t know what to say. you don’t know what the future holds in store, and you have no answers to your questions just like you don’t have answers to his.

“i know you think…not so greatly of yourself sometimes,” mingyu says, squeezing your hands. “and i want to be here to tell you that everything you think in that regard is wrong. i like you because you’re you. why do you think you’re the only one who’s been my best friend for so long? you’re the only one i can be myself around completely. tell me you know that.”

“i…didn’t know that.”

“then i clearly didn’t do a very good job at being your best friend. maybe i can fix that now.”

now. now that mingyu likes you. now that you have the chance to see your relationship blossom into something more.

“you’re not even going to ask me if i like you?”

a slow blush spreads across mingyu’s face. “shit, sorry. um, do you…like me?”

“of course i like you, gyu,” you smile, feeling giddy at the way he gets redder.

“good. can i, um, be your boyfriend, then? would you like that?”

“you’re not taking me out on a date first?”

mingyu’s eyes shine and he leans in till his nose is inches away from yours. “hi,” he whispers, and you actually whimper when his lips brush yours the slightest bit. embarrassing. mingyu doesn’t seem to mind, though.

“g-good morning, gyu.”

“the best, actually. even better if you let me take you out on a date today.”

taglist: @bookyeom @wootify @strnsvt @cloudycaramel @thepoopdokyeomtouched

@minnieminshi @nonononranghaee @hrts4hanniehae @viewvuu @bewoyewo

[nonranghaes]

heads up! alcohol mentions [wonwoo drunk]

wonwoo shuffles into your apartment, and immediately you know that this man is drunk. he's silent, hand braced against the wall as he quietly slips out of his shoes and into his slippers. didn't you text mingyu to go easy on him...? maybe you should have texted seungcheol and vernon, too.

"did you have a good time?" you call out, looking up from your book.

wonwoo looks up, staring at you for a moment. "... hm?" and then he smiles, "it was good. i missed you."

you slide a bookmark into place, shutting your book and setting it aside as you make room for wonwoo. he makes his way over to you, all but collapsing onto you as you feel how warm his face is. he plants a tiny kiss against your chest before shutting his eyes. he pulls off his glasses, reaching out to drop them onto the coffee table.

"happy birthday," you say, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. "i bought cake if you want it."

"thank you." another tiny kiss against your chest. "give me a few minutes first..."

you'll get some water into him before the two of you go to bed tonight. you just wrap an arm around him and snuggle in, happy to have your silly guy safe at home for the night.

[waldau]

Girly, I love you. As a male fan, it is so hard to find stuff, so I am on my knees for your stories:( they are beautifully written, and I love the fluffy feeling so much !!!

aaaaa i love that!!! i'm so happy you found my stories and that you like them!!! writing stories that are inclusive for as many people as possible has always been my goal from the beginning!!! i love youuu 💞

[nonranghaes]

"hey, real quick, can we talk about this text you sent me the other day?"

oh no. this is how you die. you just continue to sip your iced coffee, no thoughts, head empty as vernon's unlocking his phone. maybe if you pretend you didn't hear him, you can excuse yourself... and book it down outside before he notices? he looks up, watching you for a second. shit. you can't run like this.

"what text?" you ask after a moment. don't say it. don't say it. oh my god, don't fucking say it.

he reads it out loud, "i'm not arguing with a guy with big brown eyes. whatever you say, beautiful." he turns the phone to face you, revealing a picture that you snapped of him the other day that was supposed to go to seungkwan and ONLY seungkwan (the unfortunate single friend fully aware of your feelings for vernon).

"i didn't text that." you know your name is attached to it. you know that no one else gets to mess with your phone. maybe if you just keep acting dumb--

vernon is casual as hell about it, leaning back in his chair, "nah, it's cool. i asked seungkwan about it and he said..." he trails off, dragging the word out as he goes back to seungkwan's contact in his phone. "'oh my god. they're fucking stupid.' which... rude, but, c'mon, you're cute so you get a pass to be dumb sometimes."

deny, deny, deny, and then run away and yell at seungkwan because you really are stupid. "my cat sent that." you don't even have a cat. this is literally how you die, you think.

vernon just bursts into giggles, watching you. "you're really gonna play it like this, huh?"

"yes. no. maybe." you avert your gaze, sipping harder at your iced coffee. "that's probably not even my number--"

he chuckles, leaning over the table to press his lips against your cheek for just a few sweet seconds. he sits back down, and grins that gummy smile at you that leaves you mentally screaming.

"huh? what?" your mind is blank, probably. all you can do is stare at him. "huh? you...?"

"yeah," he says. "me." he gets up, grabbing his drink before he walks away, making his way toward the door. he glances at you over his shoulder with another cheeky grin, all too aware of how he's destroyed you within seconds.

you nearly knock your chair over, gathering your shit and taking off after him. "vernon, you jerk!"

and maybe he is. but he's your beautiful brown-eyed jerk, if everything goes according to his plan.

[chwedout]

gyu ♡

[waldau]

Hello Thank you for answering me and sorry for the inconvenience Now I understood why I couldn't I don't use tumblr so much so I don't know how to send her a message without error but I will be following your reposts Thank you very much once again and sorry * and sorry if there are any mistakes English is not my first language

no worries at all! and your english is perfect ^-^

[waldau]

Why some ppl always asks you about another @? I see it kinda rude:/

aww thank you for saying that but it's not really an issue! people spam liking/not having their age in bio is something a lot of writers face here (me being one of them), so it's like a psa of sorts. and tomo is a dear friend so i don't mind :)

[waldau]

Hello How are you? Could you tell me if tumblr "tomodachii" has deactivated? Because I saw her amazing series through your reblogs but I can't get on her tumblr

hi! i'm just hanging on right now. and no, tomo hasn't deactivated, she simply blocks people who don't have their age in their bio or spam like her posts and don't reblog them. you can rectify the above and send her an ask so she can unblock you ^-^