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leejungchans · 3 years

Text

scored! : l.c

word count | 12.4k (SORRY idk why i do this to myself either)

pairing | lee chan (svt) x female reader

warning(s) / includes | swearing, mentions of drinking and alcohol, food mentions (lmk if i missed anything!!)

genre | fluff, humour, university au, enemies-to-lovers au

notes | uh i don’t really know how game season works bc it’s not really a thing in unis here (?) so ;-; please forgive me for any (inevitable) inaccuracies hghhghe also this is my first time making a moving banner so shhh just ignore how bad it is gwhsha

summary: lee chan should really stop winning so many games for your university, because as the resident writer for the sports column of the student newsletter, you’re starting to get really sick of having to cross paths with him all the time.

a/n: happy birthday to my boyfriend (/j) chan who’s also a loser (affectionate ig) bc he never pays rent for living in my head 🙄💗 also just thought everyone should see this clip that kinda inspired this whole fic okay bye—

WEEK NINE.

You love writing for your university’s student newsletter, you really do; you just hate the person you have to write about.

“Stupid Lee Chan and his stupid wins,” you grumble, stomping across the football field with your notebook grasped tightly in your hold. Seungkwan kindly got you one with a hard cover for the new school year, because he will never forget that particular afternoon last year when you stormed into Wonwoo’s office and slammed down a crumpled sheet of recycled paper onto his hardwood desk, with LEE CHAN’S STUPID INTERVIEW #4 messily scrawled across the top of the page.

Something about the look on your face that day told Seungkwan you didn’t particularly care if Chan saw the title, written in all caps with a black marker. Hell, you probably wanted him to see.

Thus entered the hard-cover notebook so no other innocent sheet of paper would have to meet its unfortunate demise at the hands of your never-ending feud with the star player.

“Well,” Mingyu begins, easily catching up to you thanks to his long legs, “they don’t call him the ace of the team for no reason, you gotta admit that those goals he scored at the game were pretty awesome. Redstone U stood no chance.”

You hate everything about the soccer field; the dirt that gets trapped between the grooves of your soles, the occasional rogue ball that comes whipping at your head at light speed, the jock who’s currently waiting for you at the bleachers…

“Yeah, he’s a good player, I guess. But I think he let all the attention get to his head.” You lift your free hand to shield your face from the late afternoon sun, beads of sweat already forming along your hairline. Damn you for always forgetting to apply sunscreen before heading to the field, Minghao will have your head when he finds out. “Every time he poses for you while you take his photos, I just want to throw up.”

“I don’t know, Y/N,” Mingyu singsongs, “people don’t throw themselves at him for no reason either. Plus, I think that blonde hair he has going on right now suits him really well.”

Your lips purse together as you swallow down a bitter remark about how you absolutely do not find Lee Chan attractive, especially not with the new hair colour he got done over the summer. Who cares that a compliment from Kim Mingyu, most-eligible-bachelor-on-campus extraordinaire, means you’re undeniably hot with a capital ‘H’ and the trademark symbol? Certainly not you.

“Whatever,” you mutter, annoyance rising upon spying the bane of your existence in the third row, seventh seat from the left, “let’s just get this over with.” You don’t notice the smile that creeps its way onto your photographer friend’s face as he trails behind you, amusedly observing the way you stomp over to Chan.

“Glad you finally showed up, Y/N,” Chan says with that insufferable smirk of his, “you can never get enough of me, huh? Who knew you’d still be writing for the sports column despite claiming to hate my guts.”

“Because I actually enjoy writing about the other athletes at Pledis U who don’t walk around acting like people worship the ground they walk on.”

Chan places a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “You really know how to hurt a man, don’t you?”

“Only if it's you.”

“Aw, I didn’t know I was that special to you.” He has the audacity to lean in, his cocky grin unwavering as the afternoon sun accentuates all the sharp angles of his face. “You find me irresistible, Y/N, admit it.”

Mingyu, sensing you’re only minutes away from bursting a blood vessel, graciously cuts in. He’s always been on friendly terms with Chan, anyways. “No practice today?” he asks, nodding towards the athlete’s casual wear as opposed to the team uniform he usually dons whenever he’s on the field.

“Nah, Coach gave us a few days off. If this is your way of asking me to hang out, I guess I can make some time for you guys, especially for Little Miss Reporter over here.”

“No thanks,” you snap, “I see enough of your face already, and the same goes for Mingyu since he has to edit your stupid photos for the column all the time.”

“Suit yourselves. So… the interview?”

You really should’ve known that Lee Chan would never make your job easy, because you’re only at your third question when he lets out a scornful chuckle.

Your eyes narrow as your hand subconsciously tightens around your pen. “What now?”

The boy leans back on his hands, still watching you with that shit-eating grin on his face. “You ask the same questions every time, it’s kinda boring, don’t you think?”

“And you give the same answers each interview, but you don’t hear me complaining,” you shoot back, “it’s not my fault that people want to read these things about you.”

It’s true. For one of his interviews last year, you decided to mix the questions up a bit just so you could get a change of scenery, only to later have people come up to you in lectures asking why you left out the riveting part about Lee Chan’s workout routine.

You almost screamed, and after that Minghao started getting you to meditate with him.

“Ah, I see... Well then, please continue. Wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans.”

“I don’t know how you can still stand up straight with that huge head of yours.”

“I was just joking. You’re cute when you’re all grumpy like this, by the way.”

“I have a pen in my hand, Lee Chan, I would try being less infuriating if I were you.”

The smirk that tugs at his pretty pink lips burns your insides with anger, a clear sign that he did not find you threatening in the slightest. “See? Cute.”

Unfortunately, your woes don’t end with the interview. Having Kim Mingyu as the newsletter’s photographer is a double-edged sword, because while his photos always come out looking like he plucked them from some high fashion magazine, his need for perfection also meant that you have to sit through 20 minutes of Lee Chan’s posing.

So you settle for doodling flowers in the margins of your notebook while you wait on the bleachers, hoping it will make you appear occupied while keeping the temptation to watch at bay.

“It’s a little hot, do you mind if I lose the jacket?”

“Sure. Wait! Drape it over your shoulder like thi—yeah, yeah, yeah, like that! Okay, hold still…”

Against your mind’s warning, your gaze tears away from the page to where Mingyu is currently taking Chan’s photos on the field, mentally slapping yourself for gawking at the way his white T-shirt clings to his figure.

Much to your embarrassment, your eyes meet when he looks away from the camera momentarily, and the ever-growing grin on his face tells you it’s far too late to avert your gaze and pretend you haven’t been staring.

“Like what you see?” you hear him call out.

“You wish!”

“I don’t blame you for looking!” Chan yells back, and it just makes you want to bury yourself in a hole before someone else can hear him. “Let me know if you want my shirt off too!”

“Fuck off!”

You want to take his denim jacket and fling it into the sun where it can burn like your extreme dislike for him. (“Hate’s a strong word, Y/N,” Minghao always says.) You also hate how Mingyu’s looking at you, like he’s trying very hard not to say something that will have you chasing him around whacking his head with your notebook.

Hm, maybe Seungkwan was right to get you one with a hard cover. You make a mental note to thank him later.

“You sure you didn’t want his shirt off?” Mingyu asks teasingly on your way back to campus.

“No, I did not.” It’s just the heat that’s making your cheeks burn. Just the heat.

“He’s totally into you.”

“He flirts with everything that walks on two legs. Plus, he was definitely doing it just to piss me off.”

“Whatever you say,” your friend hums, so engrossed in clicking through the photos he took that he would’ve walked right into a pillar if you hadn’t pulled on his sleeve to steer him away. “Anyways, these are some pretty cool shots, especially because of the sun! Ugh, I love golden hour. Wanna have a look?”

He wags his camera in your face, to which you gently push it away with a scowl. “Absolutely not. Now watch where you’re going.”

WEEK SIXTEEN.

“No.”

“But it’d be a fun team-building activity for all of us!” Despite putting on your sweetest smile, your editor doesn’t seem convinced.

“I know you’re just trying to get out of doing the sports column for a bit because the soccer team won another game,” Wonwoo reveals as he pushes his glasses up, “I know you don’t like Lee Chan, but he’s not all that bad. I’ve spoken to him before.”

“W-Well, he’s different with you guys than when he’s talking to me! Anyways, swapping columns would be so fun even if it’s just for a few issues! Like, imagine me taking over Michelin Shua!”

“‘Take over’?” Joshua whines, “Michelin Shua is doing just fine and you don’t know the nuances that come with it!”

“You go to restaurants outside campus and review their food! What nuances can there possibly be? Ugh, fine. What if I do Project Vernway?”

“I don’t know, Y/N,” Vernon teases, pretending to check his nails like a haughty socialite, “Project Vernway is serious business.”

“You rate students’ outfits on whether or not they’re related to The Simpsons, Powerpuff Girls, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!”

“Precisely. It’s a very serious business that requires someone with an eye for fashion to handle.”

You whirl round to face Seungkwan, the newsletter’s resident advice columnist who also happens to be your last hope. He’s always been the most sympathetic to your predicament with Lee Chan, the two having butted heads quite often from their time in elementary school.

He beats you to it before you can even present your case. “Sorry, Y/N. I love you, but I wouldn’t trust you with giving advice to anyone.”

“Rude!”

“Minghao told me you once almost fought a squirrel in the quad,” he deadpans.

“It hissed at me! Plus, he was the one who told me I needed to start asserting myself more!”

“I don’t think he meant doing it to a glorified rat with a bushy tail!”

Vernon gasps, utterly scandalised. “Hey! You crossed the line with that one!”

God, you need new friends. Like, right now.

“Aw, don’t look so down, Y/N,” Joshua coos, smiling brightly despite your obvious despair, “we all know you like him more than you let on.”

“Yeah, and don’t think I didn’t catch you looking through the photos I took for him from his last interview,” Mingyu chimes in, shooting you a pointed look from his desk in the corner of the room. He’d been so silent the entire meeting that you almost forgot he’s in the room with you all.

“I—I was doing quality control!”

“Liar,” Vernon coughs, quickly raising his hands in mock surrender when you swivel around to give him your best death glare. “Sorry, just a tickle in my throat.”

“Anyways, we’re not doing the column exchange,” Wonwoo concludes. The steely gaze he sends you through his wire-framed glasses tells you it’s not up for debate, hence effectively ending the conversation. “You’ll be fine, Y/N, the people like what you write for the sports column, and besides, this will probably be the last piece you write on Chan before winter break.”

A heavy sigh pushes out of your chest. “Fine.”

•••

It’s not fine.

mingyu 🐶 [15:23] okay don’t kill me but

mingyu 🐶 [15:23] sth came up with the photog club and i can’t come :(

y/n [16:01] WHAT

y/n [16:01] IM LITERALLY ALREADY AT THE BLEACHERS

y/n [16:01] I CANT DO THIS ALONE MINGYU PLEASE

mingyu 🐶 [16:03] YES YOU CAN!! I BELIEVE IN YOU!!!!

mingyu 🐶 [16:03] c’mon i’ll buy you ice cream later 🥺

y/n [16:03] ……..fine

“Your muse has arrived.”

You look up from your notepad with a scowl as Lee Chan walks up the steps to where you’re sitting, wrinkling your nose upon taking note of his damp hair and uniform. It physically pains you to admit that despite it all, he still manages to look good.

“Trust me, you do not inspire me in the slightest,” you sneer, putting some distance between you two when he unceremoniously plops himself into the seat next to you. “But thanks for agreeing to do this during your break.”

The wink he flashes you makes you almost regret thanking him. “Anything for you, Y/N. Where’s Mingyu?”

“Busy. He’ll text you later to schedule your photos.”

“Aw, why the sad face? Missing him already?”

“So what if I am?” The challenging cock of your eyebrow wipes the mocking pout off Chan’s face as his heart involuntarily beats a little faster, unable to help himself from secretly wondering if you were serious.

He huffs in mild aggravation, miffed at the thought of you and Kim Mingyu being a thing. As much as he’d like to deny all chances of that happening, it’s impossible to ignore how much sense it makes—you spend so much time together on the newsletter, who knows what looks are shared or what touches are exchanged in the editor’s office when Jeon Wonwoo steps out for TA duties?

It’s a horrific seedling that’s been sowed in his mind ever since the two of you first approached him a year ago for an interview much like this one; a seedling Chan would like to leave out to die in the blazing afternoon sun.

“Whatever, let’s just start. My break’s gonna be over soon.”

You don’t know what’s caused such a sudden shift in the athlete’s attitude, but you don’t like it one bit. His answers become increasingly clipped, which definitely won’t give you much to work with when you start on the column in between essays later. You don’t comment on it, though, wanting to maintain your last shred of professionalism around him.

“Okay, next question… what are your personal goals for—”

“Chan! Coach said two more minutes!” Choi Yeonjun yells from the base of the bleachers. “Better wrap it up with your girlfriend!”

You barely know the blue-haired boy, yet something compels you to abandon all self respect to screech back, “I’m not his girlfriend!” He hardly seems fazed, simply shooting you a sheepish smile along with a shrug of his shoulders.

Movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention, and much to your alarm you find the seat that was occupied by Chan just seconds ago abandoned, said boy already making his way down the bleachers towards his teammate. You spring to your feet. “Wait! Lee Chan! I’m not done asking! He said you have two minutes!”

He doesn’t spare you a look, blonde hair bouncing with each step he takes away from you. “Yeah, but I’m done answering!”

“But—”

Finally, he tosses you a quick glance over his shoulder. The sneer tugging at his lips has you seeing red immediately. “You said I give the same answers all the time, right? Just whip something up yourself!”

Defeated, you can only watch dumbly as he continues his descent before huffily grabbing your bag and shovelling your things into it with more force than necessary.

You hate him, you really do.

WEEK SEVENTEEN.

“Wait, she really said that?”

“Who said what?” you ask curiously, throwing your backpack onto the nearest surface with little regard as to where it lands. “And why is Gyu’s face as red as that time when Joshua got drunk?”

“Hey! I’m right here, you know!”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes teasingly. “They were talking about this girl who’s going to be in the coming Project Vernway, basically—”

A loud groan rumbles from Mingyu’s chest as he buries his face into his arms. His voice is muffled when he asks, “Can we please change the subject?”

“Nope,” Vernon says, popping the ‘p’, “anyways, I asked her if we could feature her because she was wearing this super cool Powerpuff Girls shirt—ten out of ten, by the way, you guys need to take notes—but yeah, after Mingyu took her photos she asked him for a goodnight kiss before bolting away. And that’s not all: right after that he said he would’ve given her one if she hadn’t run away.”

Another embarrassed howl erupts from the photographer. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he sulks, crossing his arms over his chest, “she was cute.”

“Okay, okay, before Gyu actually starts crying, I just wanna check up on everyone’s progress,” Wonwoo says, “remember your parts are due three days before winter break ends so I have enough time to edit everything and send them to Professor Nam.” He goes around the room, nodding in approval as each of your fellow column writers confirm that they’re in the homestretch of their pieces.

You shuffle nervously when the editor’s eyes land on you, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. A soft utterance of your name leaves Wonwoo’s lips, and his eyes are gentle as he asks, “Do you need help with yours? Because you know you can always tell us, right? I’m sure any of us will be happy to help.”

You smile gratefully as your friends nod in agreement. “Thanks, guys. It’s no big deal, it’s just that… I didn’t really finish the interview with Chan because he got called away, and since he kept whining about how I ask the same questions over and over again I actually added a few new ones this time, so I can’t exactly make up answers for him…”

“But winter break starts next week,” Wonwoo frowns, “you might not see him again until after, which is past the internal deadline Nam gave us.”

“Maybe she can text him the remaining questions,” Joshua supplies helpfully to ease your growing panic, “that way they won’t have to physically meet up during the break for the interview.”

“Except Lee Chan is notoriously bad at responding to texts.” Your heart practically drops to your stomach because you know Seungkwan’s right, and for a reason you cannot fault Chan over. “Something about random students asking around for his number and blowing his phone up. Honestly, I don’t envy the poor kid.”

“It’s okay, guys,” you reassure, yet your tone betrays your absolute lack of confidence, “I’ll think of something.”

•••

The ‘something’ is what led you to the doorstep of Seo Changbin’s house where he’s throwing a big bash right before winter break starts tomorrow. His end-of-semester parties are always lavish, and while they’re not as exclusive as one might expect, you’ve never found yourself at one of them.

Until tonight, because you happened to be scrolling through Instagram when you saw him on one of the partygoers’ Stories.

The doorbell chimes loudly as you run your hands up and down your arms to warm them. In your haste to get to the party you had forgotten to grab a jacket to wear, leaving you vulnerable to the biting cold thanks to the sheer sleeves of your dress.

The blue-haired athlete who answers the door has your shoulders sagging with relief. At least Choi Yeonjun’s somewhat of a familiar face. “Hey! Y/N, right?” he greets brightly as he steps aside to let you in. “I didn’t know you liked coming to these parties, not that it’s a bad thing, though! I always see you running around interviewing people for the newsletter, so it’s good to let loose once in a while. You look great, by the way!”

You laugh shyly while smoothing down the nonexistent wrinkles on your slip dress, a timeless number the colour of champagne that was one of your many 3am impulse purchases. “Thanks, Yeonjun. I’m not really here to party, though, I’m looking for Chan—oh, don’t give me that look!” you whine, shoving lightly at his shoulder as he cackles, “I just need to ask him a few questions.”

As the two of you head deeper into the house, you quickly realise that all those rumours about Changbin’s legendary parties are indeed true; the marble floors are so shiny that they’re no different from mirrors, the open kitchen you just walked past had shelves upon shelves of what you assume are expensive wines, and you’ve lost count of how many crystal chandeliers you’ve already walked under.

You have to practically yell over the loud music and the chitter-chatter of the crowd just so Yeonjun can hear you. “Wow, Changbin really is loaded, huh?”

He chuckles into the rim of his cup before taking a large gulp. “That’s the biggest understatement of the year. Do you want a drink?”

You refuse with a gentle smile and shake of your head. “It’s okay, I have to go after I talk to Chan since I’m taking an early bus home tomorrow.”

“Ah, that’s a shame, but I can assure you that there’ll be lots more parties like this, so—”

“Y/N? What are you doing here?”

Speak of the devil.

You tear your gaze away from Yeonjun and come face-to-face with none other than Lee Chan. Despite a majority of the partygoers’ choice of fancy attire, he dons an oversized letterman jacket over a snug black shirt with ripped jeans and sneakers, it shouldn’t work so well on him, but it does. His wine-stained lips purse tightly together as his eyes flit between you and his blue-haired teammate suspiciously, and you can’t help but feel small under his intense gaze.

“Oh, okay, got it,” Yeonjun mutters, already beginning to inch away from you, “I’m just gonna go look for Binnie. See ya, Y/N.”

Your heart hammers violently against your rib cage when Chan takes a step closer to you and leans in to speak into your ear, his breath fanning across the shell. “You never answered my question.”

You take a shaky step backwards, plastering an expression of indifference onto your face and resolutely ignoring the dizziness that resulted from your proximity. “I came here to look for you, actually,” you say coolly.

“Me?”

“Yeah, did you forget that we haven’t finished our interview?”

A disbelieving scoff pushes past his lips. “You mean to tell me that you got dressed and put on that,” he vaguely gestures to your dress, “just to talk business with me?”

“Yes, because there’s no way I’m showing up to one of Seo Changbin’s parties in my pyjamas.”

“You could’ve just waited until after the break.”

“My internal deadline is before that.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you as he nonchalantly takes a sip from his cup. “And why should I care? You’re the one asking me for a favour, need I remind you of that?”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t walked off! Please, I just need five minutes!”

His lack of response is truly maddening, reaching a tipping point where the frustration coursing through your veins brings along a newfound burst of confidence, prompting you to wrap your hand around his wrist before pulling him along with you through the throng of tipsy students. You have no idea where you’re headed, but you figure there’d be a spare room upstairs where you could talk without having to yell over the noise.

A crisp clacking sound echoes off the marble as you march up the stairs with Chan in tow, and you breathe a sigh of relief upon reaching the second floor, already finding it much quieter with the party downstairs reduced to mere buzzing. Your streak of good luck persists when the first door on the right opens to an empty bedroom, which you immediately pull Chan into, shutting the door behind you.

You clumsily reach around the dark for a light switch, brightness flooding the room in seconds as you press yourself against the smooth wood of the door. “Five minutes,” you repeat firmly, “and I swear I’ll leave.”

“It’s not that, Y/N,” Chan says softly, “the guys on the team will be looking for me soon, there’s no time. Look, you can write the interview however you want, okay? Make me look like as much of an asshole as you want and all that. I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

Your voice comes out a whisper, so quiet that for a second you fear he didn’t hear you. “I care about my column and believe it or not, I care what my interviewees have to say.” You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, your gaze instead trained on the carpeted floor as you continue, “I want to be a journalist after graduation, and I take the column seriously because everyone else on the team certainly does, which makes it even more worthy of my dedication. Can I at least text you the questions so you can answer them over the break, please? I’d really appreciate it if the response came from you, even if it’s all bullshit.”

You wonder if he’s listening, what a blow to your pride it’d be if you were to find him completely zoned out and bored. You will never be able to show your face around him again if that’s the case.

Hesitantly, your eyes find him again. His expression is unreadable, but his stare is piercing, intense, boring into you in a way that has your heart almost leaping out of your chest. Before either of you can speak again, muffled voices outside in the hallway cause the two of you to freeze.

“—Mina said she saw him head upstairs with a girl.”

“Then… shouldn’t we head back?”

“Let’s just try first. Yo, Chan! Are you there? Rocky’s starting Just Dance in five!”

Your head whips away from the door as you stare at Chan with wide, panicked eyes.

He’s the complete opposite, unfazed and composed, when he asks you in a hushed voice, “Are you going home for the holidays?”

You nod.

“Okay, well, where do you live?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

You supply your general area through gritted teeth, bewilderment growing at his chuckle. “I live, like, a fifteen-minute drive away from you, Y/N. How about this: we meet over winter break at some place—a café, park, wherever you want—and I’ll finish the rest of the interview with you. Sound good?”

You blink owlishly at him, mind reeling as you process the offer he made you. “Really? Y-You’d do that?”

Chan shrugs. “Sure, it’s not like I have anything to do. Plus, I do feel kinda bad that you came all the way here just for me to turn you away.”

“I’m so touched.”

He throws his head back in laughter at your dry delivery. It’s a contagious chime, one that has a smile unwittingly tugging at your lips. You feel like you can breathe easier now. Who would’ve known that you and Lee Chan would come to some sort of an agreement for once? Certainly not you.

“How are you getting home?”

“The bus, probably.” You grimace, the thought of standing in the cold waiting in your thin dress highly unappealing.

“Please tell me you have a jacket somewhere.”

Chan rolls his eyes at your telling silence. “My God, Y/N, you’re going to freeze out there,” he mutters in disbelief while shrugging off his jacket before drawing close to you so he can drape the garment over your shoulders. You pray he can’t hear the thundering of your heartbeat as his cologne overwhelms your senses, intoxicating notes of fresh linen and jasmine flooding your system and threatening to make it go haywire.

He gives you a pointed look when you remain unmoving, and you realise that he won't be satisfied until you put your arms through the sleeves. So you do, already feeling much warmer with the thicker material enveloping your arms.

It’s a peculiar combination, his letterman jacket and your silky dress. You peer down at the ensemble with amusement. “What an odd mix.”

The fluttery sensation in your stomach only intensifies tenfold at his grin; it feels like a thousand elephants are doing cartwheels inside you. “Really? Because I think it looks quite nice on you—almost as good as it does on me.”

“You’re actually the worst.” Your words, however, don’t hold any hostility this time around.

“I just gave you my jacket!”

“… Touché.”

WEEK EIGHTEEN.

True to his word, Chan meets you at a cute café you used to frequent with your high school friends. It’s a quaint little place, with potted plants lining every windowsill, fairy lights strewn across the walls in various designs, the smell of freshly-baked pastries wafting through the air. You like that it’s tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city, you like that it’s not trying to be perfect with its wobbly tables and overgrown plants that dangle just inches from your head, you like that it feels like home.

It feels weirdly intimate to be somewhere like here with Chan, someone you once considered a loathed enemy, especially when the owner, a kind lady in her sixties who treats every patron as though they were her own grandchildren, brought over a slice of chocolate cake for the two of you to share after recognising you from your teenage years. Neither of you have the heart to tell her that you’re not a couple as she strokes your cheeks and reminisces about how much you’ve grown, not wanting to drag down her spirits during the holiday season.

“That was a nice place,” he says when you step out into the freezing cold, regrettably no longer in the comforting warmth of the café, “and the owner was really sweet too. I can see why you used to come here a lot. Thanks for bringing me here.”

You smile. “You’re welcome, and thank you for coming. Honestly, I was a little surprised when you told me you don’t have much to do over winter break, I thought you’d have more places to go, what with being Mr Popular and all.”

Chan matches his footfalls to yours as you wander aimlessly through the icy streets. “Nah. I already spend so much time on practice and games that I’m ready to just relax and sleep until noon. Plus, I miss my family.”

“That’s fair, you’re always so busy.”

Your cheeks grow warm when he playfully nudges you with his elbow. “I mean, so are you with the newsletter. What about you? Any fun plans for the break?”

“Mm, not really. I’ll probably just stay home for the most part to spend time with my family, and maybe meet up with some friends from high school. Minghao and I did plan on going ice-skating so he could teach me, but his parents were in town a week earlier than he expected so I told him to spend time with them instead. The rink is open all year, anyways.”

“I can teach you, if you want,” Chan blurts out.

“Wait, you know how to ice-skate?”

He nods, “Yeah, my dad taught me when I was little. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

The Lee Chan asking to hang out with you? You almost have to slap yourself to believe that this isn’t some dream your mind had conjured up to taunt you.

“Are you sure? I’ve taken up enough of your time…”

“No, I want to, and you’ll love it! What do you say?”

You’ve never seen him so enthusiastic like this, reminding you all too much like an excited puppy. If he was one, his tail would surely be wagging back and forth eagerly. How could you say no to that?

“Okay.”

•••

“I swear to God, Lee Chan, if you let me fall I’ll actually smack you.”

He laughs as he coaxes you out onto the ice, wincing a little at the vice grip your fingers have locked his hands in. “I won’t, I won’t, I promise.”

“If I die today, please tell my friends that I love them very much even though all they do is bully me.” About my maybe-crush on you.

“You’re so dramatic,” he says with a roll of his eyes, “I can assure you, Y/N, you’re not gonna die today.”

“We’re walking on ice with blades stuck to our feet.”

His grin only widens while he continues guiding you along the rink walls. You’re aware that it’s very much giving the same energy as swimming next to the edge of a pool, but you might actually rather perish than fall on your butt in front of Lee Chan.

“Fair enough, but it gets easier once you know how to do it. Relax a little, yeah?”

He attempts loosening your hold on his fingers, alarm bells going off in your head instantly at the thought of him leaving you to your own devices, stranded on frozen water with kids half your age whizzing by without a care in the world.

In your panicked state, your hand flies up to grip the wall while the other squeezes his as though your life depended on it. “No, no, no! Chan, please! If you leave me here I will make sure your sorry ass regrets it for the rest of your life!”

“Spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, don’t you?”

Heat assaults your cheeks, burning a fiery trail up to your ears as he throws his head back and cackles. “S-Shut up. You’re so annoying.”

“Just relax a little, okay?” You’re surprised at how much softer his voice becomes once his laughter ceases. “Don’t panic, focus on putting one foot in front of the other… See? There you go.”

You’re still not entirely confident—after all, next to Chan’s relaxed, graceful movements you probably look like a fumbling idiot who’s never walked a day in their life. If he feels the same way, he doesn’t show it; instead he’s patient with you, never pushing you too far out of your comfort level by letting you stay close to the wall. Slowly but surely, the two of you establish a rhythm as you glide across the ice with his assistance, emboldened by the murmured words of encouragement that spill from his pretty lips.

“Do you wanna start moving towards the middle?” he whispers.

You look up from your joined hands, heart skipping a beat at his gentle smile and the way his blonde hair falls over his eyes just a little. Perhaps you’d dare be bold and brush it out of the way for him if you weren’t as wobbly as a newborn fawn, but alas you settle with returning the smile, accompanied by a tiny nod of your head.

And so he pulls you out into the wide open, occasionally looking over his shoulder to avoid crashing into the other skaters, though he doesn’t forget to turn back to you with encouraging grins. It’s unclear what has your heart pounding a mile a minute, it could be the lack of distance between you two or simply the fear that you’d slip and send yourself sprawling across the ice, or perhaps it’s the surreality that you’re willingly spending time with each other when it feels like you were vehemently insisting to your friends that you hated him with every fibre of your being just yesterday.

The placement of your next step is just a tad off, and everything happens in slow motion. Your left foot trips over your right, you lose balance, knees buckling as gravity forces your body forward, your surroundings flash and you brace yourself for impact.

The icy impact that doesn’t come.

Chan stares down at you with widened eyes. “You okay?” His hands are gripping at your biceps tightly as you scramble to steady yourself, suddenly feeling very warm because fuck, you totally jinxed yourself and now he’s going to think you’re a loser—

“Woah, woah, slow down. Don’t panic, remember?” he reminds you, “panic will only make you slip more.”

“This would be a really bad time to let go of me,” you joke breathlessly, still trying to get your skates to stay upright.

“I promised I wouldn’t, didn’t I?” Chan asks, before adding, “put a little more trust in me.” He sounds mirthful, as though you’re not supposed to take the latter part seriously, but even in your frenzied state you can tell his gaze doesn’t share the same jest he conveys with his voice.

You smile at him sheepishly when you’re finally able to stand properly again. “Thanks, I think I tripped because I got distracted.”

“It’s okay, it’s totally normal to slip on your first try.”

“Still, you saved me from humiliating myself in public.”

He smiles wryly, “Well, I couldn’t just not catch you.”

For a moment neither of you say anything; you stare into his eyes, fully aware that both his hands are on your arms still, holding you close as your eyes flit from one part of his face to the other. He’s close, so close. And so unfairly pretty.

You trace his features with your gaze as if trying to commit them to memory, from his cat-like eyes to the tiny moles on his cheek to his soft lips—pretty, pretty, pretty. Everything about Lee Chan is so pretty, and you knew that, you’ve known it all this time; you just didn’t want to admit that you found him attractive.

Chan quietly observes your flusteredness, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth to suppress a grin as fondness blooms in his chest like flowers in a meadow during springtime. He really wasn’t lying when he said you were cute when angry, then again he just finds you cute no matter what. There’s something so endearing about how your eyes nervously dart from one place to another before eventually landing on his face, or how your earlier tumble had left your hair adorably tousled.

He frees up a hand to fix your hair, and your heart practically stops at his gentle touches as he neatly tucks your hair behind your ear, with every brush of his fingertips against your skin sending jolts of electricity through your body. He smiles proudly at his handiwork, seemingly unaware of the effect he has on you. “That’s better.”

You insist on buying Chan hot chocolate from a vendor at the nearby Christmas market despite his protests. “Just take it,” you tell him with a roll of your eyes as you shove the paper cup into his hands, “think of it as a ‘thank you’ for teaching me today.”

“It was fun, I had fun.” He gingerly takes a sip of the piping hot decadence, tongue peeking out to lick the foam off the corners of his mouth. “You weren’t bad for a first-timer, y’know. I’m surprised how quickly you sorta got the hang of it.”

“What can I say? I had a good teacher—what? Why are you giving me that look?”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s just… I think that’s the first time you’ve given me a compliment. Keep going, don’t be shy.”

You wrinkle your nose at him in mock distaste before taking another sip of hot chocolate, gooey half-melted marshmallows coating your tongue in sweetness. “No, thank you. I like humbling you.”

“You’re so mean to me… I kinda like it.”

“Is this your way of telling me you have a—”

“Excuse me, can you take a picture of us?”

The couple that stops you, dressed in tasteful, coordinating maroon outfits, looks to be around your age. You agree immediately, and the girl beams gratefully before handing you her phone, eagerly pulling her boyfriend to pose in front of the towering Christmas tree at the centre of the market.

The girl practically glows with joy when you return her phone. “These look amazing, thank you so much!” Her happiness is contagious as she scrolls through the photos you took, her boyfriend looking on with a smile with his chin resting atop her head. You can’t help but feel somewhat proud, perhaps Mingyu’s photography skills have rubbed off on you just a little.

“C’mon, I’ll take some for you two as well!”

You look to Chan, desperately pleading for help with your eyes. “O-Oh, but we’re not—”

“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

“Huh? What are you—”

He shoots you a warning look as though daring you to finish the sentence. With a sigh, you realise he’s right: there’s no use turning the situation into an uncomfortable mess for everyone involved.

Cheeks growing hotter by the minute, you stand next to Chan for the pictures. Shoulders just barely grazing the other’s, arms awkwardly hanging by your sides, smiles stiff and unnatural—if the assignment was passing off as a couple somewhat convincingly, the two of you would still be a million light years away from hitting the benchmark. The real Christmas miracle would be if the ground split into a chasm and swallowed you whole, because this is definitely enough embarrassment for a lifetime.

Chan waits for the couple to be out of earshot before buckling over in hysterical laughter, his guffaws unceasing even when you stare at him like he just grew an extra head. “Why the hell are you laughing?”

You roll your eyes when he holds up his hand as a signal to wait, tapping your foot against the pavement impatiently with your arms folded over your chest as he gasps for air.

“I just think it’s funny,” he begins, finally having calmed down, “that we look so painfully awkward. Wait, let me send them to you right now so you can see.”

“I’m not sure I want to—” Your phone chimes from his message. Unable to evade your curiosity, you quickly go through each one, unable to conceal your disgust as your features contort from the grimace that takes over your face. “Ew, I look horrible in literally all of them.”

“You look fine, Y/N. Look on the bright side, in a few months’ time we can look back on these and have a good laugh over them.”

“You already did and it’s only been two minutes.”

“Oops. I did, didn’t I?”

•••

An hour later, you catch him changing your contact photo to the worst one out of the bunch, devious giggles spilling from his lips as he zooms all the way into your face before hitting ‘save’.

Obviously, you do the same to him.

WEEK TWENTY.

“A little birdie told me that you and a certain soccer player sneaked upstairs at Seo Changbin’s party.”

You pointedly ignore your friend’s teasing grin. “It’s not what you think, Hao.”

“Then do tell, who are you so desperately searching for?”

“I just need to return his jacket,” you mutter absentmindedly, eyes scanning the quad for a certain head of blonde hair with an all-too-familiar letterman jacket folded neatly over your arm.

Minghao’s eyes widen dramatically, an expression so uncharacteristic of him that you can’t help snorting at the sight. “It’s his? I thought it was Vernon’s all this time! Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you loved me!”

“It… it slipped my mind,” you admit, “but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal…”

“Of course it is!” He seems almost scandalised that you thought he’d brush off such news. “You were sworn enemies with the guy just before winter break! And now you’re telling me he gave you his jacket and you also hung out over the break? You owe me a week’s worth of lunch.”

“What? Why?”

“If I hadn’t cancelled on you because my parents were in town you wouldn’t have gone ice-skating with your Prince Charming. I made this all possible.”

“Your parents did,” you point out matter-of-factly, “and anyways, he’s not my Prince Charming.”

“I beg to differ.”

You whirl around at the familiar voice only for your jaw to drop to the ground quicker than Professor Park can give out failing grades. Lee Chan stands before you in all his glory, head attractively tilted to the side as he gazes at you with a lopsided smile, one hand tucked in his jean pocket while the other runs through his hair. His purple hair.

He looks… good. Really good.

“You’ll catch flies like that,” he muses when he realises you’re not going to stop gaping anytime soon, and places a curled index finger beneath your chin to gently push your mouth closed.

“You—your hair—when—”

“Oh, that?” he dismisses casually as though he’s not currently the source of all your distress, “like, two days ago, thought a change would be nice. Why? Do you not like it? I knew I shouldn’t have gotten it trimmed—”

“No!” The answer comes out far louder than you had intended it to and draws more than a few confused stares from passing students. You can’t see, but Minghao’s about to burst a blood vessel from how hard he’s holding back laughter at your accidental outburst. “It—it looks… good,” you mumble, ears burning under the blanket of your hair.

Chan’s telling smirk is all you need to confirm that he asked the question fully knowing what your response would be. “Well, if you like it then that's all that matters.”

You hate it, you hate him, you hate what he’s doing to you.

“Your jacket,” you blurt out, not trusting yourself to formulate a full, coherent sentence as you thrust the material into his arms. “Washed and everything.”

“Keep it.”

“What?”

“Keep it,” he repeats, a little firmer this time.

“Why?”

“Because I like how it looks on you more.”

Stupid Lee Chan and his stupid flirty self. “I—but you—”

“She’d love to have it,” Minghao interrupts, paying no mind to the look of betrayal splayed across your face, “and she says ‘thank you’.”

Embarrassingly, your voice comes out a mere squeak. “I—I guess?”

With Minghao’s support, Chan gently pushes the jacket back into your arms. “You’re welcome,” he says with a genuine smile, “I’d love to stay but I have a meeting with my academic advisor. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

You can only nod dumbly, still in shock over all that happened even after he’s long become a speck in the distance. Minghao calls out your name softly but you remain unresponsive, eyes unfocused as he waves his hand before your face. He wonders if you’re still breathing.

“Holy shit, Y/N,” he breathes out. Of all his years of knowing you, he’s never seen someone reduce you to such a state before. It’s kind of impressive. “You’re so whipped.”

You blink down at the jacket, subconsciously clutching it tighter to your body.

“Shit,” you curse softly after several beats of silence, “I think I am.”

WEEK TWENTY-FOUR.

As members of the newsletter team, it’s only fair that you’d be the first to get a copy of the latest issue.

“This bakery looks really good, Josh,” Vernon remarks, idly flipping to the next page of his copy, “ooh, are those cinnamon rolls?”

“The best cinnamon rolls,” Joshua corrects, “they got the pastry-to-cinnamon-to-icing ratio down perfectly.”

You hum, stomach quietly rumbling at all the photos of the treats he tried. “They must be really good if you gave them such a glowing review. I’m gonna get Hao to go with me sometime.”

Bless Joshua Hong for essentially being the student population’s little lab rat. You’ve almost never had a bad meal whenever you go outside campus to eat because of Michelin Shua.

Almost.

Seungkwan snorts, “My sweet, innocent child, Y/N, you keep forgetting that he writes nice reviews for all the places he goes to even if their food sucks.”

“I don’t wanna be mean or make enemies! Plus, have you guys never heard of the phrase ‘see the good in everything’? I swear this place is actually good, though.”

“Mm, you sure it has nothing to do with the girl who works there?”

“How—how did you…”

Seungkwan regards him haughtily, lips stretching into a cheeky smile. “I have my sources.”

“Did you spy on me? You creep!”

You shake your head fondly at their banter as you glance down at your phone, eyes immediately bugging out of your head when you notice the time and all the missed calls. “Gotta go,” you mumble, aggressively stuffing your copy of the newsletter into your bag.

“Woah, what’s the rush?” Vernon asks. To no one’s surprise, he’s on Seungkwan’s page because you all know he’s not-so-secretly-anymore invested in the drama people anonymously confess, in particular the girl who’s recently been asking for advice on confessing to her best friend.

Wonwoo smiles amusedly, eyes twinkling with mirth behind his glasses. “You’re going to meet Chan, aren’t you?”

“I’m not. What makes you think I’m meeting him? I have other friends outside of him. I could be meeting with Hao.”

“You start babbling when you get defensive.”

You freeze, hand hovering just above the doorknob. “No, I don’t. You’re a liar, Mingyu.”

“Just go,” Joshua says, making a shooing motion with his hand, “don’t keep lover boy waiting.”

“He’s not lover boy!”

The last thing you hear before closing the door behind you is a smug “called it”.

Damn you, Mingyu.

•••

The field is practically empty when you arrive, only a few jocks remain as they gather their stuff from the sidelines, neither of which are Chan.

Huffing at your own forgetfulness, you take your phone out from your pocket and scroll until you get to his contact. You pace around as you wait for him to pick up, lazily gazing up at the darkening sky with your phone pressed to your ear.

“Sorry, the person you are calling cannot be reached right now. Please leave a message after the beep.”

You end the call and switch to your messages instead, hoping to find texts from him about his current whereabouts. Shoved in a box at the back of your head is the thought that perhaps he’s given up on waiting for you and went home; you want to take that box and burn it.

You decide to try calling again.

“Come on, come on, come on…” you mutter, already starting to curl into yourself as a gust of icy wind rustles through the field. Maybe you should head inside the sports centre, he might still be in there if you’re lucky.

“You’re late.”

A startled yelp escapes you, and you whip around with a hand on your racing heart to find Chan levelling you an unimpressed stare.

“Sorry,” you squeak, “I was going through the new issue with the team and lost track of time. Why are you soaking wet?”

He looks at you weirdly like you just said something totally bizarre. “Because I just took a shower? I’m not going to dinner with you dripping with sweat and in my uniform, I have standards too, y’know.”

“You should’ve dried your hair completely,” you say disapprovingly, “it’s still winter and you’re out here standing with wet hair, you’re gonna catch a cold.” You don’t bring up the way his white T-shirt clings to his damp torso, teasing the defined muscles underneath. You don’t even want to think about it. “Go back inside and dry it, I’ll wait.”

“But I’m starving,” he complains, but follows you to the sports centre anyways.

“I don’t want you catching a cold and then passing it to me. I can't be sick, I have a column to run.”

“Mhm, and it totally has nothing to do with you caring about me and not wanting to see me sick.”

You shiver as you step through the automatic doors. Universities love running the AC on full blast like electricity costs nothing, you’ve come to realise. “Exactly.”

Chan folds his arms across his broad chest—again, you don’t want to think about it—and a pout settles on his lips. “Fine, then let’s just go eat. You can just avoid me if I do end up getting sick.”

“For God’s sake, just go,” you groan, pushing him in the direction of the first hallway that leads to the men’s locker room.

“I like it when you’re bossy,” he grins, “it’s attractive.”

“I’m going to leave if you don’t hurry.” That seems to do the trick and he relents, but in true Lee Chan fashion he turns around and winks once he gets to the door.

You have to duck your head so he doesn’t see the growing smile on your face.

•••

“This is why I don’t dry my hair completely, with damp hair I can at least push it back, but now it’s just getting in my eyes.”

“Okay, you big baby.” You don’t know what he’s talking about, his hair looks so soft and fluffy like this. Your hand itches to run through it.

“Oh? We’re on ‘baby’ terms now?”

You dodge his question in favour of gazing up at the neon sign. “Rocket Diner? Good choice.”

Chan hums. “Yeah, saw it got a good rating on Michelin Shua.”

“You read the last issue?”

“I read most of them,” he admits. “I skip your column when it’s not about me, though.” He must’ve seen the pure horror that flashes across your face, because he chuckles. “I’m just joking, Y/N, I do read them. You’re good at writing, seriously.”

You smile shyly at his genuine compliment. “Thank you, really.”

The two of you pick a booth at the far back and place your orders, most of the selections being Joshua’s recommendations. He’d be so flattered.

“So… one more game before the championship, are you nervous?” you ask as the server takes away your menus.

“A little… we want to keep the winning streak going, so we’ve been practising more, but everything’s going well so far. Are you coming to the next game?”

“Of course,” you reply, smiling at the server in thanks when he brings you your sodas, “what kind of sports column writer would I be if I didn’t?”

“Will you make me a glittery sign that says ‘Go Chan’ in all caps?”

You pause to mull over his request, “I’ll make you one if the team makes it to the championship.”

He grins cheekily, “I was joking again, but since you’re the one who offered—sure, I’d love one and I’ll definitely hold you to it.”

“You better keep it forever after that, I want glitter to haunt every crevice of your life.”

He throws his head back as he laughs, “You have creative threats, I’ll give you that.”

You smile over the rim of your glass, idly stirring the ice cubes around in the fizzy beverage. “Thanks, it’s my redeeming quality.”

It feels odd, but not unwelcome, to be giggling and talking over dinner with Chan as though you’ve been close friends for years. Perhaps it’s odd because you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice them too—the longing glances, the lingering touches, the flirty remarks that still feel genuine somehow, it begs the question if this is a date. Or more importantly, if there’s something between the two of you that goes beyond a simple friendship. How cliché of you, growing a friendship with an old enemy only to then fall for him.

But as he walks you home after dinner, your hands grazing each other’s in that will-they-won’t-they manner while your laughter echoes through the dark when he recounts yet another story about his teammates, you’re starting to think that maybe clichés aren’t so bad.

WEEK TWENTY-SEVEN.

News spread like wildfire at Pledis U, this one is no exception.

You’re walking out of your last lecture of the day with Minghao when gasps and murmurs break out around you. You only manage to catch a few words at a time, but it doesn’t take long for you to piece everything together, and it takes even less time for the blood to start draining from your face.

Minghao knows the look on your face all too well. “Go,” he tells you softly as he takes your bag, “I’ll bring it back to your place, just go.”

You manage a grateful smile before you’re pushing yourself through the swarm of students leaving the lecture hall, hushed apologies spilling from your lips. Your legs carry you as fast as they can possibly go in the direction of the university’s medical centre where the staff at the counter gives you directions to the room he’s in.

Yeonjun and a few others are sitting on the benches outside when you get to the third floor. His neck cranes to where you stand at the top of the stairs upon hearing your quiet pants and offers a tight-lipped smile when your eyes meet.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun whispers back, “the doctor said it’s just a minor sprain and he should be able to fully heal by the championship. He’s just… understandably upset about it all. He trained really hard and then this just… happened.”

“Can I see him?”

“Sure, I’ll go in and talk to Coach for you.”

Nodding in gratitude, you watch as he heads into the room. There’s muffled conversation for about a minute before he steps out followed by an older man who immediately makes a turn around the corner, mumbling something about making a call.

Yeonjun’s still holding the door open for you when your attention shifts back to him, the small smile on his face telling you you have the green light to go inside.

The door shuts behind you as you hesitantly look around, eyes finally landing on Chan who’s already staring back at you. Your heart cracks a little when you see his ankle wrapped in bandages. Even before you became friends with him, you already knew how much the sport and being on the team means to him, so you can’t imagine the pressure and frustration he’s under when a major competition’s just around the corner.

“I have the worst luck ever,” he says when you sit in the chair across from him, “literally right before the championship and this happens.”

“It’ll be okay, Chan,” you say, “if you take it easy and focus on healing, you’ll recover with at least a week left to practise.”

A single tear escapes his eye and falls into his lap as he tilts his head back, blinking up at the bright lights in order to keep his tears at bay.

“I just feel horrible,” he whispers after several moments of uneasy stillness, “this couldn't have happened at a worse time—if I can’t make it to the championship all the guys’ hard work will have been for nothing and it’ll be all my fault. I let them down, I let Coach down.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say firmly, “you didn’t let anyone down and you’ll make a full recovery before the match.”

“But what if I don’t?”

Your hand finds the side of his face, and it’s that moment when he breaks like glass shattering on the ground, droplets gliding down his cheeks behind shut eyes as your thumb wipes them away.

Your other hand finds his clasped ones, resting over them in hopes it’ll provide some degree of comfort, in hopes he’ll feel a little less alone.

“You will, Chan. I promise.”

WEEK TWENTY-NINE.

You should’ve known to never trust Lee Chan.

His ankle healed a few days ago, but he was still advised to take it easy and to avoid vigorous movement for the time being. Yet, as you watch him practise for the first time in two weeks from the bleachers, you can tell he’s doing anything but that.

So when the team takes another short break, you head down to the field to talk to him with your bag hiked over your shoulder.

“Uh-oh, I think you’re in trouble,” Yeonjun says to Chan when he sees you approaching. Even from several feet away, the stony look on your face is unmistakable.

Chan glares at his friends half-heartedly when they let out teasing ooh’s before jogging over to you. “What’s wrong? Why the long face?”

“What’s wrong?” you repeat incredulously, “what’s wrong is that you’ve clearly been over-exerting yourself when your ankle just healed! You’re supposed to take things slow for at least a little more!”

His smile instantly fades away. “There’s no time for that, we only have two weeks left, you know that.”

“I do, and I know the championship is important to you all, but you’re only going to increase your chances of getting hurt again if you keep playing like this today.”

“Geez, I’m fine,” Chan snaps, “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting you! Excuse me for not wanting to see you hurt again!”

“I just said that I’m fine!” The two of you are too busy heatedly staring the other down to notice the rest of his teammates observing you, prepared to intervene in case things get too ugly. “I didn’t know you cared so much about me.”

You can’t help but flinch at the scorn that drips from his voice; it’s like a poison, paralysing your every nerve until you can’t move an inch. “O-Of course I do…” you stammer out, “why wouldn’t I care about you?”

He angles his face to the left, refusing to meet your eyes. Genuine hurt consumes you and burns through your flesh like acid, it feels like a large rock’s been lodged at the back of your throat, making it difficult to speak or swallow.

“Chan,” you call out softly, reaching out to grab his hand. He doesn’t pull away, which you take as the first good sign. “Chan, I care about you so much… and look—at the end of the day you know your body best and you can do whatever you feel like is right, I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you again, okay?”

He still doesn’t respond, but you know he’s calmed down judging by the steady rises and falls of his shoulder and the unclenching of his jaw.

Your phone vibrates with a reminder, disrupting the silence between you two.

You check the notification before shoving your phone back in your pocket. “I have a newsletter meeting,” you tell him regretfully, “but I’ll try to stop by later again. Just… just take care, okay?”

The lack of reaction from Chan worries you, a sinking pit forms in your stomach as you wonder if you’ve truly upset him to the point of no return. Perhaps it’ll be better after you both have some time alone. With one last glance at him, you begin making your way off the field.

You barely make it twenty steps when you hear his call of your name.

The last thing you register before your mind goes blank is him jogging up to you; there’s a light pressure on your left cheek, a feeling all too similar to that of soft lips against your skin. Chan’s cheeks are tinted pink when he draws away, the rosy hue growing in intensity as hollers and whistles erupt from his teammates, evidently still watching your exchange from where they sit in a circle just a few feet away.

His shy smile is endearing, as radiant as the sun shining down on you.

“Just so you know, I care about you a lot too.”

WEEK THIRTY-ONE.

“Hold still, something’s in your hair.” Joshua leans closer to Minghao, his fingers picking seemingly nothing out of his silvery hair. He examines the sparkling, minuscule speck on his fingertip before giving your friend a questioning look. “Glitter?”

Minghao groans, your name leaving his lips in a long, drawn-out whine. “See! I told you it got everywhere!”

“It’s not my fault!” It kind of is. “He’s the one who wanted it with glitter!”

“You owe me big time for helping you with that sign,” Minghao pouts, ducking his head after Joshua very kindly offers to check his hair for more glitter.

“I know,” you agree, certain that it wouldn’t turn out as well as it had without the assistance of Minghao’s artistic flair, “feel free to name your price anytime.”

As always, Wonwoo had managed to get you all front row seats at the championship, his reasoning had been the same as last year’s—“How is my sports column writer going to write about the game if she can’t even see what’s going on?” Works like a charm every year, and neither of you are ashamed about sneaking the rest of the team plus a few other friends into your exclusive section.

But this also meant the hanging shade covers do little to shield your faces from the blazing sun, prompting Mingyu to fish his sunglasses out of his bag. Along with his to-go cup of iced tea (at least it used to be) he looks like a dad on vacation, but he makes it work. “When’s the second half starting?” he asks, grimacing after taking a sip from his watered-down beverage.

Vernon checks his watch. “In about five minutes.”

“You think we can catch up?”

“We can, I hope. Belville is doing way better than I’d expected this year, though…”

You find it difficult to tune into the conversations around you, your mind far too occupied by a certain someone on the massive field below. From where you’re sitting, you’re just able to spy him sitting on one of the benches whilst being flanked by his teammates, purple hair almost appearing red in the sunlight as they listen intently to their coach. You wonder how Chan’s feeling; discouraged by Belville University’s unusually good performance? Or is he confident they'll break the tie?

Minghao gingerly sits down next to you to avoid startling you. “Still worried about him?” he asks gently.

“I just hope he’s not feeling too burdened,” you reply quietly, “he puts enough pressure on himself being their ace and all, not to mention how he needs to be careful with his ankle.”

“I’m sure he is, especially after you talked to him about it,” Minghao smiles, softly nudging you with his elbow as a reminder of that afternoon when Chan kissed your cheek on the field. You had called him that day as you were speed-walking to your meeting, words jumbled and frantic as you attempted to tell him everything in a single breath. He still distinctly remembers your almost incoherent rambling before finally putting together the pieces thanks to context clues.

You stare longingly at Chan’s figure, eyes tracing the ‘DINO’ on the back of his uniform as a smile tugs at your lips.

“I hope so.”

•••

You’re sure the frustration the Pledis U players are feeling at this moment must be tenfold of that of your fellow students. Belville manages to score another goal just as everyone was starting to believe it’d be another victory for your school, once again bringing the match to a tie with just four minutes left on the clock.

“This sucks,” Seungkwan groans, burying his face in his hands, “they were so close to winning.”

Wonwoo nods. “Yeah, but you have to admit that this makes it all the more exciting. Y/N, you’ve been taking notes, right?”

You roll your eyes teasingly as you wave your mini notepad around, showing the editor your full page of notes. “Of course, boss,” you joke, “it’s not like I do this for the past games I’ve been to.”

“Well, but that was before you started being distracted by Lee Chan,” Vernon pipes up before shoving the rest of his hotdog into his mouth. This has to be this third or fourth one, much to Joshua’s disappointment, who had already asserted that the stadium still has yet to improve the ketchup-mustard ratio on their hotdogs, but Vernon eats practically anything you give him so no one is surprised.

“I was not distracted by him!”

Seungkwan looks wholly unconvinced by your statement. “Please, you were totally ogling him when he scored that goal just now.”

“And you choked on your water when he lifted his shirt to wipe his face.”

“Xu Minghao!”

“Just telling the truth.”

It’s almost funny how quickly your friends’ collective teasing (read: bullying) dies down when the match resumes, your section falling into severe silence as none of you dare make a sound lest you miss out on a single moment. You and Minghao soon find yourselves pressed to each other with your arms linked, sharp inhales and hisses escaping you two every now and then as the Pledis U team endeavours to score one final goal.

You’re unable to peel your eyes from Chan, his purple hair bouncing as he runs across the grassy pitch alongside his teammates, skilfully passing the ball from one to another towards the goalpost.

Regardless of how many games you’ve been to in the past, you’ve never once felt immune to the effects of the adrenaline you get as the timer counts down to the final seconds. At this point, you and Minghao are squeezing the hell out of each other’s arms, and despite no words being exchanged you know you’re both hoping the team will manage to pull through—no, they definitely will.

Yeonjun passes the ball over to Chan as they near the Belville goalkeeper, and it feels like time has stopped when he kicks it with full force. Your eyes follow the ball slice through the air like a sharpened knife, you don’t know if you’re even breathing at this point.

It goes in, and time unfreezes as the entire stadium erupts into cheers and applause. Next to you, Seungkwan and Vernon squeal while crushing each other into a bear hug, and even the usually-stoic Wonwoo lets out delighted shouts before clapping you on the shoulder, a knowing smile playing on his lips when he remarks that you’ll definitely face no shortage in material to write about.

Out on the field, the Pledis U team tackles Chan in a huddle, their hollers so loud you can hear them from all the way on the stands. It doesn’t take long before they’re raising him to their shoulders, even tossing him into the air a few times. Yearning blooms in your chest, and you secretly wonder if it’d be appropriate to run down there to celebrate this moment with him.

As though reading your thoughts, Minghao lightly bumps his hip against yours. “Go,” he urges with a grin, “you know you want to.”

“What if he doesn’t want me there, though?”

“He definitely does,” Mingyu reassures, shoving the glittery sign you and Minghao spent all night working on into your hands, “go get him, tiger.”

The smiles on your friends’ faces are all the encouragement you need as you make your way off the grandstands, heart thumping wildly in your rib cage like a rogue drum when you reach the edge of the pitch. You take the first step onto the field, grass crunching under your feet as you make your way towards the team, the sudden realisation that everyone on the spectator stands can see you with your big obnoxious sign has your previously-gained confidence dissipating into thin air little by little.

Yeonjun’s the first to spot you, pulling away from the group huddle with a smirk before exchanging whispers with the guys beside him. Confusion writes itself all over Chan’s face when they abruptly set him down, the look of bewilderment in his eyes melting away when he sees your approaching figure.

He jogs up to you, sweaty purple hair pushed off his forehead and practically glowing with happiness as he beams. “You came,” he breathes out.

You grin back. “Of course I did. Congratulations, I knew you could do it. Is your ankle feeling okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” His gaze flickers down to your sign, his smile so wide that it threatens to split his face as the blinding gold ‘GO CHAN’ glitters up at him. “You actually made me one?”

“Hao helped a lot, you know I’m hopeless with the arts and crafts stuff,” you admit shyly, “think of it as a victory present.”

“That’s it? Don’t you think I deserve a little more for that last goal?” he teases.

“Well, what were you thinking of?”

He steps closer to you with a coy smile. The proximity makes you dizzy, makes you feel like a blushing schoolgirl talking to her crush for the very first time. “Hm, I do happen to have a few ideas...”

You raise a brow. “Why don’t you show me, then?”

“I’d prefer if you do it.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Chan tilts his head, challengingly, enticingly. Huh, you never noticed how long his lashes are. “Am I at least your idiot, though?”

This is it—you’ve truly fallen. Somewhere along the line, traded insults and heated glares evolved into shared giggles and longing glances. Somewhere along the line, you went from hating him with your whole being to making room for him in your heart.

Somewhere along the line, you’ve fallen for the boy with infectious laughter and endless zest.

And so when you reach up to cup Chan’s cheek, pulling him in to press your lips to his, you know in your heart that you don’t regret it one bit.

“See?” he murmurs when you part for air, smiling sweetly as he rests his forehead against yours, “I knew you can never get enough of me.”

“You talk too much, Lee Chan.”

“You should do something about it.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

a/n: everyone wish my love the bane of my existence a happy birthday or you owe me 20 dollars /j (uh it’s not the 11th anymore where i live but that’s my fault </3) anyways feedback is always highly appreciated and important to me :> so do let me know what you think hehe 💕 thank you for reading besties!!!

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