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Choi Jongho did not enter your life as a person, but as a haunting: a name that drifted through the drafty university corridors like incense smoke, thick and impossible to pin down. Long before you ever felt the actual weight of his presence, he was a creature of myth, a ghost story stitched together from the sibilant friction of hallway gossip. He existed in the peripheral: a blur of shadow at the end of a locker row, a sudden hush in a crowded room, a phantom built from the jagged fragments of a thousand different perspectives.
To the girls, his name was a secret shared in velvet tones, their voices dropping into a low, appreciative hum that spoke of dangerous curiosities. To the boys, Choi Jongho was a challenge, a figure met with the skeptical arch of a brow and a defensive, narrow-eyed silence. Even the faculty participated in the lore; their sighs heavy with rhythmic, leaden exhaustion; they spoke his name with the same weary cadence one might use for a storm that refused to break, a perennial troublemaker who disrupted the peace just by breathing.
The world saw his skin decorated with a constellation of bandages – pale, adhesive flowers blowing against his jaw, knuckles or cheeks – and immediately painted a portrait of a brawler, a boy who often sought out violence in the dark. They didn't see the mundane betrayal of his own body, the angry flare-ups of skin that required protection, nor did they understand the brilliant, silent engine of his mind. While they gossiped about his empty seat in the lecture hall, interpreting his absence as a middle finger to the institution, Jongho was simply busy refining his intellect in the shadows, turning in assignments that were nothing short of surgical in their perfection.
Bad boy was the label people pinned to him; a neat, clinical sticker pressed against his chest to keep the mystery contained. It was an archetype they could understand, a story they could digest. You never felt the urge to peel back that label or look for the man beneath the myth; you knew that people were starved for drama and gluttons for exaggeration. To the masses, Choi Jongho wasn’t a student or a peer; he was the most magnificent fiction the campus had ever authored, and you were perfectly content to let the story remain unread.
When the myth finally collapsed into reality, it didn’t happen with a thunderclap nor a staged rebellion; it happened in the suffocating, holy silence of the library. You were stuck in your usual corner, where the afternoon sunlight bled through the glass like diluted honey, coating your frantic notes in a deceptive, golden warmth. For two hours, you had been wrestling with a single stubborn paragraph, your pen tapping a frantic, rhythmic SOS against the wood as the logic of the assignment refused to click. It was starting to get frustrating.
That was when the air in the room seemed to shift, acquiring a strange, electric charge. IT was a prickling awareness that crawled up the nape of your neck; the unmistakable sensation of being perceived.
You lifted your head, your gaze cutting through the dust motes dancing in the light, and there the ghost finally took form. Choi Jongho sat across the expanse of the room, a stark departure from the whispered legends. There were no jagged edges, no televised drama, no cinematic defiance. He was simply sitting quietly, his silhouette framed by the open laptop and a book. His posture was an exercise in discipline, spine straight, his brow carved into a soft furrow of intense concentration.
He looked normal. But as you watched the light catch the sharp line of his jaw and the steady, calm rhythm of his breathing, you realized normal was a lie. He looked focused, grounded and impossibly composed. It was an effortless sort of perfection that felt far more dangerous than any rumour – a quiet, irritating brilliance that made the bad boy label feel like a cheap mask.
His features possessed a lethal, calculated precision, as if a sculptor had spent an eternity obsessing over the architecture of his face. Every line was a deliberate stroke of unfairness, from the razor-sharp edge of his jaw to the way his hair cascaded into his eyes; an effortless look that others spent hours in front of mirrors trying to mimic. His mouth was set in a stoic, neutral line, but it held a ghost of a shape that suggested it was a stranger to silence, a curve that hinted at words that could either heal or burn.
But it was his eyes that truly stripped you of your defenses. By the time you realized you were staring, it was already too late; he was already there, meeting you in the air between your desks. It wasn’t a fleeting glance or a shy flicker of interest; it was a gaze that was heavy, direct, and entirely unapologetic.
You froze, the breath hitching in your throat as the library’s silence suddenly felt like a vacuum. There was no awkward fumbling, no frantic pretense of looking elsewhere on his part. He didn’t have the decency to look caught or embarrassed. Instead, he simply watched you with quiet curiosity, as if you were a sudden, interesting riddle that had just materialized in his line of sight.
Beneath your ribs, your heart did something uncooperative, thumping a rhythm that betrayed your composure. You were the first to break, your eyes snapping back down to your notes because the alternative was unthinkable. You couldn’t just engage in a silent staring contest with the campus’s most notorious myth, not when his reality was this suffocatingly handsome, no thank you. Your pulse was already racing; you didn’t need to hand him the victory of seeing exactly how much he’d rattled you.
You told yourself it was probably just a momentary lapse in judgment that meant absolutely zip. It didn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t. But for the rest of that long, crawling afternoon, you couldn’t shake the prickle on the back of your neck.
Every time you looked up, performing that practice ‘I’m just stretching my neck’ maneuver, he was still there, anchored in your line of sight like he lived there. And sometimes, you’d catch it: that heavy, deliberate gaze that suggested he wasn’t just in the room; he was watching the show.
Your pen hover uselessly over your notes. “Are you just trying to burn a hole through me with your mind?” You muttered under your breath. He didn’t hear you, of course, but the way his mouth tilted just a fraction of a millimeter felt like a direct answer.
“Stop it,” you told your brain, which was currently busy cataloging the exact shade of his eyes. “You’re thinking too much about this; he’s probably just spacing out.” Right, your subconscious shot back with a sarcastic slow-clap. And I’m sure he’s just spacing out in your exact direction for the third time this hour. Total coincidence.
*
Sometimes you wish you could chalk it up to a one-off; a glitch in the system that would fade by morning. But life wasn’t that simple. Instead of disappearing, Jongho started popping up everywhere, like a song you heard once and now can’t escape from. It wasn’t some grand, cinematic destiny; it was just relentless.
There he was in the hallway, propped against the lockers with his earbuds in, looking like he was listening to a frequency no one else could hear. Then on the field, surrounded by a group of guys who laughed freely, like they owned the space around them. And then there was the classroom. You expected him to be the type to sleep through a lecture, but he was focused. When he spoke, it wasn’t a lucky guess (it never was); it was precise.
“Oh, great,” you muttered to your notebook, scribbling a frustrated line through a margin. “He has a brain. As if he wasn’t annoying enough already.” The fact that he was genuinely smart was a low blow. It ruined the pretty but vacant narrative you had tried to spin to keep your heart rate down. Now, he was officially dangerous.
But the real problem? The glances. At first, you played the skeptic. It’s just timing, you told yourself. We’re just looking at the same exit sign. Don’t be a narcissist. Except the exit sign didn’t hold eye contact for three seconds too long. “If he looks over here one more time,” you whispered, adjusting your bag for the tenth time, “I’m charging him rent for the space he’s taking up in my head.” Good luck collecting, your inner voice drawled. He looks like he’s already moved in and started redecorating.
*
Every time your paths crossed, his gaze acted like a heat-seeking missile. It wasn’t a blink-and-you-miss-it brush of the eyes; it was deliberate. It was intentional and worst of it all, it wasn’t the cold detached stare you’d expect from someone with his don’t-mess-with-me reputation. It was warm. It was curious. It was the kind of look that made your stomach do a frantic backflip when you were just trying to walk to lunch.
Naturally, you handled this with the grace of a seasoned professional: you ran for the hills. Or, more accurately, you took the long way to the library and hid behind a stack of dusty books. “I’m not a coward,” you muttered to yourself, ducking into a side hallway the moment you spot a familiar head of hair at the end of the corridor. “It’s just strategic planning.” Right, your subconscious chimed in, dripping with sarcasm. Because nothing says I’m a cool, collected adult like sprinting in the opposite direction because a guy looked at you with a bit of sunlight in his eyes.
“He’s just being friendly,” you argued, ignoring the way your pulse was thumping against your throat. “He’s probably just confused.”
But when you peeked around a corner, you see him leaning against a doorframe, looking exactly where you’d been standing five seconds ago, the accidental theory went up in flames. You weren’t just avoiding a person; you were avoiding the very inconvenient fact that Jongho was looking for you and he seemed to be getting better at finding you than you were at hiding.
*
“Yeoju.”
The sound of your name acted like a physical hand on your shoulder, rooting you to the spot. No. Absolutely not. You knew that voice; it had been the unsolicited soundtrack to your dreams for a week. You turned with the agonizing slowness of someone bracing for a high-speed collision, and there he was: Choi Jongho.
Up close, he wasn’t just handsome; he was a masterpiece. He stood right in your personal bubble as if he’d signed a long-term lease on the space. Your brain didn’t just stall; it pulled a blue-screen-of-death. He was taller than he looked from across the field, broader, too. He wasn’t bulky but he felt solid, like a mountain that had decided to relocate specifically to block your path. And his eyes? God, they were even worse up close.
“Hi,” he said.
Just ‘hi’. A casual, two-letter hand grenade thrown into your entire nervous system.
“Hi?” you echoed. Your vocabulary had apparently been stripped for parts, leaving you with the conversational skills of a startled clownfish. Jongho studied you for a beat. He wasn’t subtle about it; he just looked at you with a terrifying level of focus, as if reading your mind was a perfectly legal pastime.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jongho said.
You nearly choked on your own breath. “I - what?”
He went straight for the jugular. No small talk, no ‘nice weather we’ve got today’; just a direct hit. He didn’t even sound offended; he sounded like he was reading a weather report.
“I haven’t -” you started, but the lie died a miserable death under his gaze. “I mean, I didn’t…”
“You have and you did.” He countered calmly. There wasn’t a drop of irritation in his tone. If anything, his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smirk, like he found your internal panic deeply entertaining (he did).
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to play coy?” you managed to snap, your defense mechanism finally kicking in. “Because I was going for an elusive mystery and not suspiciously absent.”
“Well,” Jongho said, the amusement finally reaching his eyes, “you’re much better at the latter. It’s hard to be a mystery when you’re always ducking behind a vending machine every time I walk into the cafeteria.”
You stared at him, the blood slowly draining from your face until you were sure you looked like a Victorian ghost. You couldn’t believe he was actually doing this: calling you out in broad daylight, no safety net in sight.
“You noticed that?” you managed, your voice a faint squeak.
“Yeah.”
Of course he did. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? This was fine. Everything was perfectly, spectacularly fine. You were just a girl standing in a hallway, contemplating a sudden career change to a hermit.
“I wasn’t actually avoiding you,” you told him weakly, suddenly finding the speckled pattern of the linoleum floor fascinating. You looked everywhere but at his face. Why did he have to be so… much? So handsome, so attentive, so there? You were afraid to even take a full breath, terrified that his cologne would settle in your lungs and stay there forever.
Jongho raised a single, skeptical brow. You folded like a cheap card table.
“...okay, maybe I was. A little bit.”
A small smile tugged at his lips; victory. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he’d won. “Why?” He asked. He didn’t move his feet, but he leaned in just a fraction - an inch of shared space that made your breath hitch in your throat.
Because you’re intimidating, you thought. Because you’re confusing. Because you look at me like I’m the only person in the room and I don’t have a manual for that. Because you’re Choi Jongho and I’m… currently vibrating out of my skin.
But your brain refused to translate any of that info into actual speech. Instead, you settled for the pathetic truth. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Jongho repeated, his voice dropping an octave. “That’s a lot of effort to put into a ‘I don’t know’. You nearly took out that freshman trying to dive into those shelves at the library yesterday.”
“He was in my way,” you muttered, finally meeting his eyes for a split second before the heat became too much. “And for the record, being elusive is a very taxing lifestyle.”
Jongho let out a low, velvety chuckle that sent shivers straight down your spine. For a beat, he just watched you, the amusement in his eyes softening into something else. Something that you do not even want to entertain at the moment for fear of completely melting right there and then. “You don’t have to.”
Your brain hit a snag. “Have to what?”
“Avoid me.”
Oh. Well, that was arguably much worse than being called out. Now the elephant in the room had a name, and Jongho was petting it.
“I wasn’t-”
“You were,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. He wasn’t trying to win the argument anymore; he was just stating a fact. Then, he took a small, deliberate step forward. It wasn’t a lunge, but it was enough to encroach your personal space, making you hyper-aware of the heat radiating off him and the sheer, solid reality of his presence. “I don’t bite,” he added, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.
You almost laughed. Almost. Because the threat of him biting wasn’t the issue here. THe real problem was that he looked like he knew exactly how much he was short circuiting your nervous system, and he wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down.
“That’s a relief.” You managed to get out, though your voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I left my rabies shot records in my other bag.”
“Good to know,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before looking back onto your eyes. “So, does this mean I can stop chasing you through the corridors, or do I need to invest in better running shoes?”
“I think your shoes are doing just fine,” you murmured, clutching your iPad to your chest like a shield. “Clearly, they’re faster than mine.”
Jongho laughed again, a short, breathy sound that made you want to both run away and move even closer. He reached out, just a ghost of a movement, as if he wanted to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. Instead, his hand settled on the strap of his own bag, his knuckles brushing against the air between you.
“So,” he said, his voice dropping into that dangerously calm territory again. “Now that we’ve established that I’m not a predator and you’re not a track star… what are we going to do about it?”
You blinked, your brain struggling to process the ‘we’ in that sentence. “About what?”
“About the fact that every single time I try to talk to you, you turn into a disappearing act.” Jongho tilted his head, watching the way your eyes darted around and colour blooming on your cheeks. “And the fact that I’m still standing here, even though I’m probably five minutes late for practice.”
“You should go,” you urged quickly, though you didn’t move an inch. “I’d hate to be the reason you get scolded or a lap.”
“I think I can handle a few laps,” Jongho countered, his gaze narrowing slightly, becoming more focused. “But I’m not moving until you promise me one thing.” You looked at him, furrowing your eyebrows. “No more vending machines. No more side exits.” He leaned in just a fraction more, his voice a low vibration. “If you want to talk to me, just look up. I’m usually already looking at you anyways.”
Your heart didn’t just flip this time; it did a full-blown floor routine. “That’s… highly inefficient for your social life.” You managed to joke, even though your voice was breathless.
Jongho shrugged. “Maybe.” His lips curved into a real, genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and it took your breath away. “But I’ve always preferred quality over quantity. See you around? Without all the running?” He didn’t even wait for an answer, just gave you a final, lingering look and started walking away. You stood there for a solid minute, frozen, until your brain finally rebooted.
“He’s so annoying,” you whispered to no one in particular, feeling the heat still radiating off your skin. Liar, your inner voice mocked. You’re already waiting to see if he’s going to look back. And, of course, just before he turned the corner, Jongho looked back and flashed you a smile.
*
You learned very quickly that the rumours surrounding Choi Jongho were mostly just creative fiction. He wasn’t the reckless person people whispered about, nor was he particularly rebellious just for the sake of it. He was simply selective. He hoarded his words like a dragon hoards gold, refusing to waste them on anyone he deemed uninteresting.
Which, unfortunately for your sanity, meant you were in serious trouble. Because once Jongho decided he liked you, the quiet part of his personality didn’t apply. He didn’t hold back. At all.
It started small.
An iced coffee placed on your desk without a word, exactly how you liked it, while he walked past to his own seat. A seat that, you noticed, was consistently closer to yours than it had been a week ago.
“I didn’t ask for this,” you told him one morning, staring at the coffee as he sat down.
“You didn’t have to,” Jongho replied, flipping open his notebook without looking up. “Your eyes were halfway shut during the first half of the lecture. It’s merely a safety intervention.”
Then came the messages. They weren’t long-winded or poetic; they were short, blunt and strangely attentive.
Jongho: Wear a jacket today. It’s supposed to rain.
You: Are you the weatherman now?
Jongho: No, I just saw you shivering yesterday and decided I didn’t want to listen to you sneeze all through Professor Yoon’s theories.
It was his brand of kindness, wrapped in a layer of dry wit and delivered with a directness that left no room for you to hide. He was chipping away at your defenses, one caffeinated beverage and weather update at a time.
“You’re doing that thing again,” You pointed out to him as you left the library, noticing he was matching his stride to your shorter steps.
“What thing?”
“The silently looking after me thing. It’s very distracting.”
Jongho stopped walking, forcing you to turn and face him. “Is it working?”
You tilted your head to the side in confusion. “Is what working?”
“The distraction.” Jongho said, a familiar spark of mischief in his eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, you haven’t tried to hide behind a vending machine in about four whole days. I’d call that progress.”
“It’s not progress,” you huffed, trying to summon a shred of dignity. “It’s called exhaustion and I’ve retired from my life as a fugitive.”
“Good,” Jongho murmured, stepping into your personal space with that effortless, predatory grace. “I prefer you when you’re cornered anyways. You’re much more honest.” He reached out, his fingers grazing your wrist as he adjusted the strap of the bag slipping off your shoulder. The touch was brief, but it felt like a live wire against your skin. You didn’t pull away, and his eyes dropped to your hands, noting the way you were white-knuckling your iPad and notes. “You’re doing it again.” His voice dropped to a low, hum-in-your-chest frequency.
“Doing what?” You breathed, your lungs suddenly feeling like they were at maximum capacity.
“Holding your breath. You do that whenever I get within two feet of you.” He leaned down, his face hovering just inches from yours, close enough that you could smell the faint, crisp scent of his soap. A smug, devastatingly handsome smirk played on his lips. “Am I really that dangerous?”
“You’re loud.” You managed to get out, though it was barely a whisper.
“I haven’t said a word in thirty seconds.”
“Your existence is loud; it’s very disruptive to my peace and quiet.”
Jongho let out a soft huff of laughter, his gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity. He knew. He knew exactly how much your heart was hammering against your ribs. He knew that the flush creeping up your neck wasn’t from the afternoon sun. “I think you like disruption.” He challenged, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle on the back of your hand. “I think you’d be bored if I stopped.”
“I love being bored,” you lied, though your voice betrayed you by trembling. “Boredom is my favourite hobby.”
“Liar,” he whispered. He didn’t move away; instead, Jongho leaned in a fraction more, until his forehead was almost touching yours and you completely tried to stop breathing. “If you really wanted me to stop, you’d have walked away by now but you’re still here. And you’re still looking at me.”
He was right, and that was the most annoying part. Your defenses weren’t just crumbling; they had completely evaporated, leaving you wide open. “I think you’re incredibly full of yourself,” You told him, trying for a bite that just wasn’t there.
“Only because you’re incredibly easy to read,” Jongho countered, his eyes crinkling. “But don’t worry. I like the story so far, especially the part where you stop running and finally let me catch you.”
*
Then came the phase of total invasion. Jongho didn’t ask to sit next to you; he just claimed the desk, dropping his bag with a finality that suggested the seat had been reserved for him by some divine decree. He started walking beside you after the lectures ended, even on days when he didn’t have tutorials, matching your pace like it was the only thing on his schedule.
Every conversation felt like a high-stakes game. Jongho didn’t do ‘casual’. When you spoke, he gave you his full, undivided attention; his eyes locked onto yours as if you were explaining the secrets of the universe. And then there was the staring. God, the staring.
“You’re doing it again,” you muttered one afternoon, your pen trembling as you tried to make sense of your own notes.
“Doing what?”
“That.” You gestured vaguely toward your own face, not daring to actually meet his eyes. “Staring.”
“I’m talking to you,” Jongho countered easily, his voice smooth and maddeningly calm.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “You don’t have to stare like that while you’re talking then. It’s… distracting.”
“I like staring at you though.”
The nib of your pen skated right off the page. There it was. That signature Jongho move; that bold, unfiltered honesty that smacks you with the force of a freight train every single time. He didn’t use metaphors; he just threw the truth at you and watched you scramble to catch it. “You can’t just say things like that,” you mumbled, your face feeling like it was being held over an open flame.
“Why not?”
“Because! Because you just can’t!”
Jongho leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracking the way you were falling apart with what looked suspiciously like fondness. (He’d later admit, with that same terrifying honesty, that he was completely endeared by how easily you unraveled.) “I mean it.” He told you, his tone softening but his gaze remaining relentless.
“I know and that’s the problem!”
Jongho laughed; a real, genuine sound that vibrated through the quiet of the room. It wasn’t the smug chuckle from before; it was warm and bright, and it hit you right in the center of your chest. His laughter made your heart feel simultaneously too full and dangerously tight.
“You’re ridiculous,” Jongho whispered, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“I’m ridiculous? You’re the one conducting a psychological experiment on my blood pressure!”
“It’s not an experiment,” Jongho said, leaning in just enough to remind you he wasn’t going anywhere. “I already know the results. I’m just enjoying the process now.”
*
His friends weren’t exactly the helping type. If anything, they seemed to be experts at stoking the fire and watching the chaos unfold with mischievous grins. The transition into their orbit had been a blur. You still couldn’t quite pin down the exact moment the shift happened, but somehow, hanging out with Jongho had become a daily rhythm. It felt as settled and familiar as an old pair of shoes, despite the reality that only three months had passed since that first, blunt confrontation.
When Jongho finally invited you to join their lunch table, he did it with a casual shrug, as if he were inviting you to breathe. You hesitated, the weight of the moment pinning your feet to the floor. You didn’t want to be the stray puzzle piece trying to force its way into a finished picture. This was his inner circle: San, Wooyoung, Mingi and Yunho. Their names had hummed in the background of your life like it was a constant radio frequency long before you ever met them. They carried a collective reputation; nothing malicious, just a brand of energy that was unapologetically loud. They were a thunderstorm of personality, and you were… Well, you were the quiet after the rain.
But Jongho didn’t leave you any room to spiral into your own head. “Come on,” he said, his voice a steady anchor. He was already moving, walking with a calm certainty that you would be right behind him. And you were. Your feet moved before your brain could protest, making you a total traitor to your own social anxiety.
The second you approached the table, the energy shifted. It wasn’t a heavy, ominous change; more like the sudden static electricity that precedes a lighting strike.
“Oh?” Wooyoung leaned forward so fast you feared for his center of gravity, his eyes dancing with a brand of mischief that suggested he’d just found a new shiny toy. “And who do we have here?”
“This is Yeoju,” Jongho offered. That was it. No context, no friend from class, just your name dropped into the center of the table like a lone playing card. Apparently, that was all the fuel they needed.
“Oh, this is Yeoju,” San echoed, drawing out the name like he’d finally found the missing piece of a government conspiracy.
“Wait, the Yeoju?” Mingi added, his eyes going wide enough to rival dinner plates.
Your head snapped toward Jongho, looking for an exit strategy or, at the very least, a translation. He looked disgustingly unfazed, as if he hadn’t just thrown you to a pack of overly caffeinated wolves. “What exactly does that mean?” You asked, your voice cautious, sensing a trap.
“Absolutely nothing,” Jongho said, his tone a smooth attempt at damage control.
“Absolutely everything,” Wooyoung corrected simultaneously, his grin wide enough to be considered a hazard.
You felt the heat crawl up your neck, a slow-blooming crimson that you were helpless to stop. Jongho merely nudged a chair out with his foot, his gaze steady as he gestured to the seat beside him. “Sit.” He commanded softly.
They were a whirlwind of personality, exactly as you had expected. If chaos had a soundtrack, it would be the loud teasing and the fits of laughter that erupted over absolutely nothing. But their favourite spectator sport, by far, was watching the two of you, especially when Jongho started doing his thing.
“You barely touched your lunch,” Jongho noted, his brow knitting into a tiny, focused frown as he surveyed your tray with the intensity of a health inspector.
“I’m just not that hungry,” you insisted, offering a small shrug.
Jongho didn’t buy it for a second. With the practiced grace of someone who had done this a dozen times before, he slid a generous portion of his apple slices onto the empty space of your plate. “Eat.”
You blinked at the fruit, then at him. “I literally just said I wasn’t-”
“You’ll be hungry later and Future You will thank me.” He didn’t even bother looking up, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.
“Jongho, you really don’t have to-”
“I know,” he interrupted, voice dropping an octave, “but I want to.”
Simple. Final. A verbal shrug that sent your heart into a frantic, uneven rhythm. Across the table, Wooyoung made a sound like a teapot reaching its boiling point, clutching San’s arm for emotional support.
“Bro,” Wooyoung whispered, the kind of whisper that could be heard in the next zip code, “at least give the girl a warning before you pull a move like that.”
Jongho looked up, one eyebrow arched in genuine confusion. “Warning for what?”
“For that!” San chimed in, gesturing wildly between the two of you as if pointing out a crime scene. “You can’t just drop that kind of domesticity on someone without a disclaimer.”
“I’m just taking care of her.” Jongho stated as if he were stating that the sky was blue.
That was the breaking point; you buried your face in your hands, the heat in your cheeks reaching a localized melting point. “Stop,” you mumbled into your palms.
“Stop what?”
“Saying things like that! In front of… people!”
“Why?”
“Because it’s embarrassing!”
Jongho tilted his head, his dark eyes searching yours with a sudden, quiet curiosity. Then, his voice softened, losing its playful edge. “Is it embarrassing because it’s not true?”
The world seemed to go mute. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. It was an entirely unfair question; a checkmate in a game you hadn’t realized you were playing. “...No,” you admitted, the word barely a breath.
“Then it’s fine,” Jongho decided; a small, satisfied shadow of a smile playing on his lips. You had no comeback. Your brain had officially exited the chat, leaving your heart behind to handle the aftermath of a logic-shattering encounter.
*
The second you left the cafeteria and the door swung shut behind you, the table didn't just explode; it ascended to a whole new level of theatrics.
Jongho sat there, staring at the space where you'd just been, his expression unreadable as he absently twirled a stray apple slice with his fork. He looked like a man who had just watched his favourite sunset depart for a faculty meeting.
"Oh, look at him," Wooyoung started, his voice a dramatic, mournful wail. He slumped against the table, clutching his chest. "He's pining. San, look! Our maknae is a wilting flower because his Yeoju left him for a history professor."
San took the cue immediately, fanning himself with a napkin. "The tragedy! The heartbreak! Did you see his eyes? They've lost their spark! He's a hollow shell of a man."
Jongho finally snapped out of his faze, his fork clattering against the plastic tray. "She's just going to an appointment; it's a ten-minute walk. I'm fine."
"A ten-minute walk you desperately wanted to take with her," Mingi teased, leaning in with a grin that was practically predatory. "You were halfway out of your chair before she even finished saying she had to go. You looked like a golden retriever seeing its leash."
"I was just... checking if I had any classes in that direction," Jongho lied, though his ears were beginning to glow a suspicious shade of pink.
"Liar, liar, fruit-provider~" Yunho sang, poking Jongho's cheek. "I've known you since we were kids. You don't ever share your fruits with anyone. I once asked for a grape and you looked at me like I'd insulted your entire bloodline. And yet, there you are, practically hand feeding her like she's a baby bear."
“I didn’t hand feed her.” Jongho muttered, his composure beginning to fray around the edges. “I just made sure she wouldn’t faint from hunger.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Wooyoung cackled, leaning across the table to get right in Jongho’s space. “I’m just taking care of her,” he mimicked, perfectly capturing Jongho’s deep tone. “Is it embarrassing because it’s not true? Aigoo, our Jongho-ya is a romantic lead; someone call a screenwriter!”
“Keep it up,” Jongho warned, though the threat was hollow. He tried to reclaim his stoic mask, but a small, traitorous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “See if I ever let any of you join us for lunch again.”
“Oh, did you hear that?” San gasped, clutching Mingi’s arm. “He said us. He’s already thinking in plurals. He’s far gone, boys. There’s no saving him.”
“Get out,” Jongho laughed, finally shoving Wooyoung’s face away. But even as he grumbled, his eyes kept drifting back to the door, wondering when he’d be able to see you next.
*
You honestly didn’t know what to do with him. That was the core of the problem: Choi Jongho was an immovable object of a person; too sure, too steady and far too comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t believe in the art of the game or the safety of hesitation; Jongho navigated his feelings for you with terrifying precision. “You’re staring again,” you noted one evening, the sky overhead a bruised purple as you both trekked toward the subway station.
“Yeah? What about it?”
“Well… at least you’re honest,” you huffed, trying to ignore the way your pulse spiked.
“I told you already. I like looking at you.”
You let out a frustrated groan, the sound lost in the evening breeze. “Jongho, seriously. You can’t just keep saying things like that as if they’re nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” Jongho countered instantly.
You stopped dead in your tracks. Jongho took one more confident step before realizing the rhythmic click of your shoes had vanished. He doubled back, stopping directly in front of you, his silhouette framed by the golde glow of a nearby streetlamp.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice dropping into that low, grounding register you’ve grown to love.
You hesitated, the air between you suddenly thick with a weight that felt suspiciously like a turning point. “You’re Choi Jongho,” you said, as if that name alone explained the shift in your world.
Jongho blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features. “...Okay? And you’re Kim Yeoju.”
“And I’m just me,” you blurted out. There it was: the ugly, insecure truth you’d been keeping under lock and key. You knew you liked him, and you were painfully aware that he knew it too, but your brain was still struggling to bridge the gap between him and you. “I don’t get it,” you continued, the words spilling out like a broken dam. “You’re everything: smart, handsome and funny. People gravitate toward you. And your friends are…” You waved a hand vaguely at the horizon, “well, them. And I’m just…”
“You.” Jongho finished for you.
You looked at him and Jongho stepped into your personal space, not with a rush, but with a deliberate magnetic pull. He was so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating from his coat, a silent invitation to stop running.
“Yeah,” he repeated, gaze unwavering. “You.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
Your breath hitched, trapped somewhere in your throat. “Why?” you whispered, the question feeling fragile and small in the face of his certainty.
Jongho didn’t skip a beat. “I already told you: I like you.” It was so simple. So unshakeable. It was the kind of honesty that didn’t leave any room for shadows. “And I don’t do things halfway,” he added. “I don’t care about the noise or people’s expectations. I want you to understand that I like you, a lot, and that’s the end of the sentence.” Jongho reached out, his fingers grazing your temple as he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so tender, so careful, as if he were handling a porcelain treasure rather than a girl who was currently falling apart.
Your heart didn’t just skip a beat this time; it tripped, stumbled and plummeted headfirst into a feeling you were finally ready to name. “You’re being completely unfair…” You murmured, gaze fixed on the collars of his coat.
A faint, victorious smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “So I’ve been told. But you like me anyway.”
So, for once, you decided to stop fighting the current and just let yourself drown; you did like him, infinitely more than was probably good for your sanity to be quite frank, and you were finally ready to dive headfirst into whatever beautiful, chaotic mess the two of you were planning on building.
“Fine,” you breathed, the word acting as a white flag of surrender. “I do. I like you too, you insufferable, overconfident man.”
The grin that broke across Jongho’s face wasn’t his usual cool, composed smirk. It was something brighter, more boyish, and entirely devastating. Without a word, he reached down and laced his fingers through yours, his grip firm and warm, anchoring you to the sidewalk.
“Good,” Jongho replied, humming with a quiet triumph. “Then we’re on the same page. Now, let’s go. We’re going to miss the train, and I’m not letting you walk home alone in the cold now that you’re officially mine to worry about.”
As he pulled you gently toward the station, your fingers tucked securely against his, the weight of your insecurities didn’t seem quite so heavy anymore. If Choi Jongho was this certain about you, maybe it was time you started being certain too. After all, if you could survive a lunch hour with his friends, you could probably survive anything, as long as he was the one holding your hand.
From that moment on, the pretense vanished. Not that your attempt at playing it cool had ever been more than a paper-thin disguise, but now the cards were face up on the table. Nothing to hide anymore.
And Jongho? He didn’t just lean into it. He doubled down. If his previous attention had been a steady hum, this was definitely a full-blown symphony. He claimed your hand with a casual, public confidence that made it feel like your fingers were two halves of a whole; Jongho became a fixture outside your lecture halls; he looked at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the crowded campus might as well have been a blur of static. Naturally, his friends were absolutely relentless about the development between the two of you.
“Finally,” Wooyoung sighed one afternoon, draping himself dramatically across the back of the cafeteria chair like a Victorian starlet. “Honestly, I was about three days away from just confessing for him. The tension was giving me hives!”
“You were not,” Jongho countered flatly, not even looking up from where he was carefully peeling a tangerine for you.
“I probably would have done it with way more flair,” Wooyoung insisted, gesturing wildly. “Music! A live performance! Petals! Maybe a flash mob!”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“You’re underestimating my romantic soul, Hojong-ah.”
“No, I’m not; I’m estimating it exactly where it belongs.”
A laugh bubbled up in your throat and slipped out before you could catch it; a bright, genuine sound that cut through the playful bickering. Jongho’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. He turned his head, his expression softening instantly into something so tender it felt private, despite the four other boys watching. He looked at you as if your laughter was his favourite melody in the world, and for the first time, you didn’t feel the need to hide your face; you just smiled back.