Sleep was a myth that night.
I lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to my ceiling since freshman year, wondering what kind of psychological warfare Jeong Minho was playing at.
"Go on a date with me."
Those words echoed in my skull like a drumbeat, pounding behind my eyes, refusing to be ignored.
What did he mean by that? Was it another one of his jokes? A dare? A prank to see how far he could push me before I finally snapped and threw a dictionary at his face?
I turned on my side and buried my face into my pillow.
Why did he look so serious?
The worst part—worse than the public humiliation, worse than the suffocating feeling in my chest—was that a part of me wanted to say yes.
A small, stupid, traitorous part.
"Get a grip, Haru," I mumbled to myself. "He's just messing with you. Like always."
But was he?
The way he looked at me after the play wasn't the same as his usual smugness. There was something softer in his eyes. Something I didn't know how to process.
By morning, I convinced myself I would forget the whole thing. Pretend it never happened. Ghost him like a mature adult. Easy.
Until I opened my phone.
1 new message from Jeong Minho
[10:42 AM]
"Still waiting for your answer, Princess "
I stared at the text, my soul leaving my body in a dramatic flourish.
He was serious. And texting me cute emojis now? What was next, handwritten letters?
No. No. No.
I shoved my phone under my pillow and stormed out of my dorm.
Today, I had to avoid him. Again.
But by now, avoiding Minho was like trying to avoid air. Or gravity. Or taxes.
He found me—within twenty minutes of me stepping onto campus.
I was sitting in a corner booth at the café near the arts building, sipping a caramel latte and reading over my script notes, when he plopped down in front of me like he owned the chair.
"Good morning, my favorite sunbae."
I nearly choked.
"What are you doing here?"
He raised an eyebrow, pointing at the drink he had just ordered.
"Is it a crime to get coffee now?"
I narrowed my eyes. "When you show up wherever I am every day, yeah, it gets suspicious."
Minho leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand like we were in some cheesy romance drama.
"So?" he asked, voice smooth. "Have you thought about it?"
I looked around dramatically. "Thought about filing a restraining order? Yeah, every hour."
He grinned. "You're cute when you're defensive."
I sputtered, heat crawling up my neck.
"I'm not going on a date with you," I blurted, heart hammering in my chest.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look surprised. He just nodded slowly, like he expected that answer.
But then he said, "Why not?"
"Because," I said quickly. "Because we're not—this isn't—ugh, us, whatever this is—it's not normal."
He tilted his head. "Normal's boring."
I stood up, grabbing my bag.
"I don't like you."
"That's okay," he said easily. "I like you enough for both of us."
I froze.
He was still smiling, but there was something gentle underneath. Something dangerous.
I stormed out before I could say anything stupid.
Again.
Later that day, I sat with Seojin on the rooftop of the old building near the gym—our usual chill spot. The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow across the sky.
"I think I hate him more now," I muttered, sipping my soda.
Seojin raised an eyebrow. "You hate him because he asked you out?"
"I hate him because he won't stop looking at me like—like I matter."
Seojin smirked. "Maybe you do."
I groaned and dropped my head onto his shoulder.
"I can't like him, Seojin. He's annoying. Loud. Arrogant. Infuriating."
"And stupidly hot," Seojin added helpfully.
I slapped his arm.
"You're not helping."
He laughed. "Okay, okay. I'll be serious. But Haru... you're not denying that you feel something."
I stayed silent.
Because he wasn't wrong.
The next morning, Minho didn't text me.
Didn't show up in the hallway. Didn't "coincidentally" pass by my class.
It should've felt like peace.
Instead, I felt... restless.
Was he mad?
Had I gone too far?
Was this relief or disappointment?
I stared at my phone screen like it held answers.
Nothing.
Hours passed. Still nothing.
My stomach twisted in knots.
What was wrong with me?
That evening, I found myself standing in front of the sports center. The one place I knew I'd find him.
The place I swore I'd never willingly walk into.
Inside, the gym echoed with bouncing basketballs and squeaky sneakers. There he was—on the court, hair damp with sweat, his jersey clinging to him like sin itself.
I hated how good he looked.
I hated how my eyes followed him like a magnet.
He spotted me immediately.
He froze. Then walked off the court without a word, straight toward me.
My pulse quickened.
"You came," he said simply.
I folded my arms. "I didn't say yes."
"You didn't say no either. Not really."
He stood close—too close. The smell of sweat and cologne was messing with my brain chemistry.
"I wanted to say no," I whispered.
"But you didn't," he whispered back.
I looked up at him, breath caught somewhere in my throat.
"I don't know what this is."
He smiled softly.
"Neither do I. But I want to find out. With you."
My heart was a traitor, thudding too loud in my chest.
I turned to leave, afraid of what I might say if I stayed.
But this time, I said something before I could stop myself.
"...One date."
He blinked. Then a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face.
"One date," I repeated, glaring up at him. "And if you do anything weird, I will murder you."
"Deal," he said, grin impossibly wide.
He looked like a kid who just won the lottery.
I sighed.
What had I gotten myself into?