I hover near the shelves, my fingers twitching towards the spines before I remember myself. This isn't my room. It's His.

“May I?” I ask. My voice sounds brittle, a little too polite as I try to mimic a casual tone. Social scripts are harder to maintain when the air feels this thick.

“Of course!” Jiwon says eagerly. “You can take anyone you like.”

His eyes are wide, hopeful. The words make my chest tighten and my skin prickle. It’s a physiological anomaly—why does his offer make me shiver, and my heart swell at the same speed? I can almost feel the potential energy building between us, a low-frequency hum I can’t tune out.

I reach for a first-edition King of High School—two high school boys in love. It’s my comfort series, the one I’ve read at least fifty times. The logic of their romance is a sequence I’ve memorized to self-soothe. But the cover art here is sharper, the colors deeper. A new purchase. In fact, all of them look untouched.

The realization hits me, sharp and sudden: has he bought them all... for me?

“Have you read any of them?” I ask, my thumb tracing the edge of the pristine laminate.

Jiwon shrugs, looking a little sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Working through them. Slowly. I like to take my time.”

“Got any favorites?”

He glances at the book in my hands, then back at me. “I kind of like the one you’re holding. Cute couple.”

His eyes linger on mine—too long, too intensely. It’s a direct stare that bypasses my usual defenses. I look away, heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird, and put the book back on the shelf. My hands are shaking.

The room’s ambiance suddenly feels overwhelmingly serene—the soft lighting and hushed atmosphere are a bit too much for my current state. It’s like an invisible weighted jacket on my senses, pressing down. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, a culmination of the hours spent prepping, the mental tax of memorizing scripts, and the inherent energy drain of engaging with someone as volatile as Jiwon.

Seeking a moment of respite, I gravitate toward the bed, perching on its edge. The dark grey linen feels cool beneath my fingertips. Here, the rich scent of leather and sandalwood cologne that permeates the room becomes even more pronounced. I cross my legs, roll my shoulders, and stretch my neck, tilting my head from side to side. I reach my right hand up high, trying to work out invisible knots.

From across the room, Jiwon’s gaze is fixed on me, drinking in every detail.

He absorbs the sight: the curve of my lips, the pale canvas of my skin, my dark hair styled back—save for a loose strand troubling my forehead. As I stretch, my eyes close, and for a second, I forget where I am and who I'm with.

I hear Jiwon’s breath catch—a soft, involuntary sound that is almost a gasp.

My eyes fly open to meet his. I quickly drop my hand. His chest hitches subtly, a clear physical manifestation of a reaction he can’t hide. There is a directness in his gaze that is both disarming and exhilarating—a raw, unshielded electricity.

"Jay," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "You have no idea how hard it is to stay on my side of the room right now."

I now understand what it means when they say a knife could cut the tension in a room. I see it in my head, a samurai sword, grating against concrete, snapping. 

"Then don't," I hear myself say. What? No! Another glitch out of nowhere, but too late to take back. 

He moves slowly. Deliberately. Each step punctuates the silence until he reaches the bed and sits a careful distance away, as if measuring the air between us.

“Conversations are… exhausting for me,” I begin, feeling the need to offer some apology for my seemingly provocative actions earlier. “And sorry if I don’t say much after this. I’m not being snobbish. I’m just out of steam.” And scared shitless!

“That’s okay,” Jiwon murmurs. His voice is a low, steady current in the too-quiet room. A soft, understanding smile touches his lips. His eyes, still heated, stay glued to mine. 

I look away, barely catching my breath. Again, those emerald green depths prove too much.

“I’m just happy you’re here,” he says. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Talk less,” I reply. 

The words slip out unfiltered. Honest. Bare. 

A deep chuckle vibrates from his chest. He leans back, one hand braced on the bed, the other resting loosely in his lap. Open posture. Nonthreatening. Like he’s trying not to startle something skittish.

We sit in silence until I have the guts to look at him again. He's looking straight ahead, his side profile perfect, I see just the tip of his tattoos peaking from above the collar of his shirt and sleeves, enough to make my stomach clench. After our heated clash at school, it seems he's deliberately trying to hide them.

“Long sleeves again,” I say. “Why?”

He blinks, confused at first. “Oh! I’m trying to cover my tattoos.” He adjusted his collar, as if it could ride any higher.

“Why?”

A pause. Then, “I thought it might be too much for you. I didn’t want to overload your senses.”

Something flares in my chest. Warm. Fast. Unwanted.

He thought that far? About me?

“They won't overload my senses," I blurt before I can stop myself, "- they're like a maze, and I like puzzles.” 

What's wrong with me? Where were all these words coming from? 

His mouth curves. Slow. Dangerous.

“Wanna see them all?”

He doesn’t wait for my answer.

My brain screams no, but his hands are already working open the buttons at the neck, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

In one smooth motion, he pulls it over his head.

I stop breathing.

Ink spreads across him like a living circuit. Lines and shadows etched with precision. It crosses his chest and hard rock abs. They climb one side of his neck and pour down his left arm to his wrist. Black and grey. Controlled chaos. Beautiful.

A tapestry. A map. A story I want to read so bad!

His smile deepens when he sees my reaction. Satisfaction flickers there, unhidden.

My eyes trace everything. Follow the curves. The breaks. The connections. Patterns reveal themselves the longer I stare. This isn’t decoration. It’s language.

A thorned vine twists behind his arm, disappearing out of sight.

I lean closer before I can rein in my instincts. My hand lifts, fingers gently turning his arm to follow the line.

And there it is.

On the back of his hand.

A rose. Perfect. Unfurling.

Oh shit! Realization slams into me. I’m too close. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin. It radiates. Encloses.

His breathing is shallow. Controlled but fast. He’s gone still, like movement would snap something fragile between us.

His eyes lock onto mine again.

Then drop.

To my mouth.

My hand jerks back as if burned, but I don’t retreat. I can’t. My chest tightens. My breath stutters. Panic claws up my throat.

He's going to kiss me!