#math test tomorrow who? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wqnwoos · 2 months ago

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Your first and only semester as TA throws your previously unassuming college life into disarray, fuelled almost entirely by the brown-eyed and charming student who’s slipping closer to failing with every lecture. And in return for your mathematical assistance, Lee Chan decides he’s going to set you up with the guy you’ve been persistently pining over for a year and a half. It’s a simple equation: you teach him calculus, and he’ll teach you how to flirt. Except, as you’re both quick to discover, mathematical equations don’t translate over to real life as easily as you’d expect.

as part of the svt ta collab hosted by @camandemstudios !

⇢ pairing: lee chan x ta!reader

⇢ genre: fluff, idiots2lovers, minor angst?

⇢ wc: 10.2k (i’m just as surprised as u are)

⇢ a/n: so many people to thank (the whole collab server for all the sprinting!!) but especial thank u to cam (@/highvern) and em (@/gyuswhore) for hosting this collab. they put SO much work into this and i couldn’t be more grateful to be part of it, so thank you both for everything!!! and thank you to alta (@/haologram) for being my first official beta ever and managing to convince me to not trash the whole thing <3

“I NEED YOUR help.”

Those are probably the last four words you expect to come out of Lee Chan’s mouth. Because you’ve graded his assignments and you’ve seen his work and you’re pretty sure he’s doing above average in the calculus class you’re TA’ing this semester.

So when he manages to corner you after one of the lectures to ask for some extra tutoring, you’re startled, to say the least. “You need my help?”

He nods, once. You cock your head to the side, and your surprise must show on your face, because he fishes a slightly crumpled looking paper out of his bag. You recognise it as the latest quiz, one that, fortunately, landed on the other TA’s marking pile. Scrawled at the very top, in Joshua’s unforgiving red pen, is a glaringly large ‘F - 27%’.

“It was only a pop quiz,” you say encouragingly, hiding your sympathetic wince. “Doesn’t count for anything.”

“I can’t afford to let my grades slip,” he counters quickly, like he’s prepared for this. “Which they are And I really don’t get this module. I just think some extra time could help, but I’m terrible at teaching myself.”

You look at him for a long moment. He can’t be more than a year or two younger than you, this boy with eager brown eyes and a hopeful smile; it’s almost charming, how he leans forward in anticipation of your reply, how worried he is about one small test. And — well. You’ve seen the grade sheets, and his grades are slipping. Not drastically, but this is your job, after all.

“Well,” you say finally, glancing at your watch. “Why don’t you come to the office hours tomorrow, and we’ll go over the quiz? And we can go from there.”

He smiles then, so sudden and bright you almost feel caught in it. “Perfect!” he agrees, as he takes his quiz back, shoving it haphazardly into his bag. “I’ll see you then. Oh, wait — my name’s Chan, by the way.”

You cast him an amused look as you zip up your own bag. “I know that.”

“Oh! Cool! Nice! That’s — yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow!” And as he backs away he stumbles over his own feet, catching himself before he topples over. He sends you a sheepish, flushed smile that makes you smile too. You’re always quick to smile at the students, and you send off the younger boy with a wave. Despite being a math major who loves her subject, you know just how much people despise it. Especially calculus.

“What’s got you thinking so hard?” A light voice interrupts your thoughts, and you jump, before turning to face Hong Joshua with a smile just as sheepish as Lee Chan’s was only moments ago.

“Nothing much,” you say, laughing awkwardly. Trying to look anywhere but at his honey brown eyes, you shuffle papers as you continue. “Just about how much people hate math.”

Joshua smiles that breathtaking smile, and your stomach quite literally does a flip. “Why? People bullying you for being smart again?”

You’d mentioned to him that you got made fun of in high school once for liking math. He refuses to let it go: you roll your eyes at him. “No. It was just a train of thought.”

“People who hate math are just not as cool as us,” he says, picking up his own folder, flashing you another smile.

(Us. Your stomach could be Simone Biles, with the amount of somersaults it’s landing today.)

“But anyway,” he continues, checking the time with a frown, “I gotta go. I’ll see you around, dude.”

Dude. There it is: just as quickly as you inflate, you deflate, watching him leave with a wrinkled brow. The problem with Hong Joshua is that he makes it incredibly easy to fall for him — and all the while, he’ll remain incredibly oblivious. You’re just another one of the sorry suckers who isn’t careful enough to nip it in the bud. But really, can you be blamed, when he looks like that? When he acts like that, all sweet and caring and let-me-hold-open-the-door-for-you?

You snap yourself out of your reverie with a sigh. Back to reality, as your mother always says — and your reality is the pile of algebra waiting for you back home.

“What I don’t understand,” Seungkwan says thoughtfully, pacing Chan’s room with his hands folded behind his back, “is why you’re putting on cologne to go to office hours.”

Chan hears the know-it-all tone under his roommate’s pretension, and he resents it. Running a final hand through his hair, and glancing himself over in the mirror one more time, he turns back to Seungkwan with a frustrated scoff. “Does it matter?”

“A problem shared is a problem halved,” Seungkwan wheedles, “In this case, it’d be a problem thirded. Three’d. You know what I mean - there’s three of us to share your problem. Right, Vernon?”

Vernon just blinks from his seat on Chan’s bed, slow and confused. “I don’t really know what we’re talking about. But sure.”

“Nothing,” Chan answers brutally, snatching up his bag. “We’re talking about nothing. Because I don’t have a problem, and Seungkwan’s just being nosy.”

“Look at him!” Seungkwan gesticulates loudly to Vernon, “look how dressed up he is. For class — for calculus! Nobody dresses up for calculus!”

“Ahhh,” Vernon nods slowly, drawing it out; and then he pauses, furrows his brows and asks mildly, “But isn’t that just because he has a crush on his TA?”

Chan hisses; Seungkwan triumphs. “I knew it!” he declares with glee, “I knew there was something! Who is she? Do you have a picture?”

“Nobody,” Chan grinds out, grabbing his backpack and jamming his feet into his worn-out shoes, casting Vernon a resentful look. “And I do not have a picture. But if I did, I wouldn’t show you. Goodbye.” And with that magnificent gesture, he shuts the door firmly behind him.

He’s not late to office hours. He never is. In fact, he’s three minutes early, but you’re already there, along with one or two other classmates he knows by sight but not by name. You’re leaning over one of their desks, talking rapidly as you gesture to the papers in front of them, lanyard swinging.

Chan doesn’t have a crush on you, contrary to what seems to be popular belief. Well. Not a big one. Like, a teensy tiny one, maybe. He thinks you’re pretty, and you’re smart, and you’re incredibly kind. But does he have a crush on you? No. Are his intentions here solely to get to know you better, in order to have a crush on you? Yes. In fact, that’s exactly what this is. Pursuing the butterflies in his stomach. Just out of interest, he reminds himself, as he pushes open the door and you turn around. Pure, innocent interest.

Within an hour of his entrance, you’ve explained every one of Chan’s mistakes — and there were a lot — in digestible detail. Twice as efficient and twice as digestible as Lee, the old, weak-voiced professor with an evidently wrong glasses prescription. He says as much to you, which has you laughing and shaking your head. (“Don’t,” you scold, even as you smile, “he’s so nice, though.”)

The professor is nice. Chan thinks you’re nicer.

He leaves office hours even brighter than he entered. Those butterflies are multiplying.

And, as it turns out in the very next week, when there’s yet another pop quiz — Chan is under the suspicion that Professor Lee doesn’t plan his lessons and just shoves last year’s quizzes at them instead — he does actually need your help. His grades are getting worse. There’s always the other TA, Joshua, who Chan actually happens to know, but Chan thinks that his half-crush is worth following up on. At the very least, you could be a good friend.

Is pretending to need calculus tutoring in order to get to know a girl his finest moment? No. Because as much as he tries to justify this with his slipping grades, he knows perfectly well he could be doing excellently (well, averagely) if he put a little more effort in. But is that as appealing as the TA with the best laugh he’s ever heard? And so, somehow, with impressive persuasive skills he probably picked up from Jeonghan by accident, Chan manages to wheedle you into tutoring him, smiling as you hmm’ed and haa’ed and bit your lip nervously.

“I’ve got a full list already,” you had said slowly, and he’d jumped in before you could go down the route of polite refusal.

“I know, I know, but seriously — I’ll be the best student you’ve ever had! I’m a good learner, I swear. I can study whenever you want.”

Which is how he landed himself early morning sessions — and when you said early, you weren’t kidding. The times you’ve scheduled for him to start range between eight to ten, and he specifically didn’t book morning classes this semester because he loves his sleep. But still: his grades are slipping, and there’s a cute girl on the line, so he takes his success with warmth — or perhaps it’s just the thought of spending more time with you, but whatever it is, he feels like he’s glowing, inside out.

Your first tutoring session with Lee Chan goes surprisingly well. The moment he began halfway guilt tripping you into tutoring him (“Imagine if my grades slip so far, I don’t get to graduate on time. Could you live with that?”), you knew he was something. And somehow, you still agreed to this, despite being loaded with all the shit a master’s student has on their plate, on top of TA’ing. Maybe you should work on saying no sometimes, but who are you kidding? You don’t have time to deal with your possibly self-destructive flaws, not when your to-do list is three miles long

Despite your qualms, however, Chan turns out to be a great listener. He doesn’t act pissy when you tell him he’s doing something wrong, either, which is already better than half your students.

“I probably seem really stupid,” he says with a quiet laugh, as he re-attempts a question from the last quiz.

“Not at all,” you say instantly. “Don’t tell Lee, but calculus is the worst, anyway.”

He lifts his head with curved lips — “Oh? From the words of the mathematical extraordinaire herself?”

Immediately, you’re growing hot, shaking your head and laughing, looking away. “Oh, come on. Don’t call me that.”

Chan’s eyes don’t move from yours — it’s like you can physically feel the weight of his gaze, sometimes. You’ve never met someone with so much… presence. “Why not?” he asks. “Own it. Professor Lee says that about you all the time.”

“Okay, not me specifically,” you correct quickly, “he says that about Joshua too.”

Chan clicks his tongue dismissively. “Yeah, but Joshua’s a piece of shit anyway, so…”

Your surprise must be visible on your face, because when Chan looks back at you, he laughs out loud, louder than the other students in the library are happy with; they cast him dirty looks, but it’s like they bounce straight off him. He only lowers his voice a little, leaning closer. “Joshua and I are friends,” he explains, amused, “I’m not serious. But anyway, if you don’t even like calculus, what are you doing TA’ing it?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, just… Lee asked me to, so I was like, why not?”

“I can’t imagine anything worse,” Chan says bluntly, “than teaching a bunch of people how to integrate shit.”

A giggle slips out of you before you can prevent it; he makes you do that a lot. Laugh, without meaning to. “Well. That’s why I majored in Math. I don’t mind.” You hesitate. “What are you actually majoring in?”

His eyes do that thing again. Sparkle. He bites down on his lip, as if suppressing a smile. “Math.”

“What?” You can’t help it, you’re laughing again, louder this time and trying to stifle it. “You never said!”

“You never asked!” He mirrors your incredulous tone teasingly.

“You just let me embarrass myself like that.”

“You didn’t do anything embarrassing.”

You try to ignore his eyes on you again, picking up your pencil to doodle awkwardly in your notebook. “I thought you were like… on a sports program. Or in, like, accounting or something.”

Impossibly, his smile widens. “Those are two very different things.”

The playful lilt to his tone does something to your stomach. “Have you finished your question yet?” You change the subject so sharply that he laughs again, sliding his notebook over to you.

You glance over it, blinking in surprise. “That’s perfect,” you say, pushing it back towards him. “Well done.”

That smile shifts into something more — well, if you didn’t know any better, you’d call it flirty. Lopsided and charming. “Yeah, well,” he says, packing up his stuff, “I‘ve got a great teacher.”

The tutoring sessions continue to pass much the same. Chan does his work, but keeps stopping to ask you all kinds of questions in between. Your favourite colour. Your favourite type of coffee. Your favourite movie, TV show, your hometown — somehow, his easy, open nature has you telling him all kinds of things, and more than that, you’re asking him all kinds of things in return.

“You know, I’m not like this with the rest of my tutoring roster,” you observe quietly, as you finish a story about your high school prom. “Like, at all.”

“Good!” he says, grinning at you. He’s wearing glasses today, you notice. He looks — nice. Cute. “That’d be like you’re cheating on me. I’m your favourite student.”

Slightly appalled, you nudge him. “Not true! I’ve never said that. I don’t play favourites.”

“I do,” he says just as swiftly. “I’m your favourite. I can tell.” He pats your hand. “It’s okay, you’re my favourite too.”

You pull your hand away, ignoring the swoop of your stomach. “Focus!”

“How am I supposed to focus when you’re right there?”

“Easily,” you snap, “since you’re my favourite student.”

Chan positively beams when you say it, not even attempting to hide it as he returns to the problems in front of him. “As long as you can admit it.”

At the end of the session, Chan digs into his bag and slides a candy over to you, and you can’t help the smile that splits your face open. “No way,” you cry, picking it up, “I love these! How did you know?”

He smiles, not even glancing at the candy once, fixing his eyes on you. “You told me. Like, a week ago.”

You barely remember that Something swells up inside you, tight and hot and sweet. “Oh, wow. Thank you, Chan.” You hope he can hear how touched you are, because you can’t quite express it.

“It’s nothing,” he says, with a small smile, one you can’t quite read. “We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah,” you say after the shortest of pauses. “Of course. We’re friends.”

He truly is something else. Almost your opposite, with his confidence and his openness and outright friendliness. You can’t quite put it into words, but something warm just pours out of him.

When you say as much to Minghao, your best friend, he laughs in your face. “Chan? Lee Chan?”

“He’s nice,” you protest lightly. Minghao somehow knows him, through Jeonghan or something or other. Briefly, you wonder how many people Chan knows — which really just proves your point. He’s annoyingly likeable, and even though you have to be forced to admit it, he is easily your favourite out of all the students you tutor. It’s barely even a competition; it’s not a competition. Your other students are fine, but they’re not quite Chan.

“Lee Chan is a little shit,” Minghao says with a hidden affection you’ve had to learn to detect. “But, yeah. He’s a good guy.” There’s a pause filled by the surrounding murmurs of people in the coffee shop you guys are in. It’s always overflowing with people, but it’s the only place that serves halfway decent herbal tea for Minghao, so the two of you always end up meeting here.

“How’s Joshua?” Minghao asks suddenly, doing the annoying thing where he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Still as sexy and gentlemanly as ever, is he?”

At the very mention of his name, you feel yourself growing hotter. “He’s fine,” you say shortly. “Busy.”

Your crush on Joshua has never been a secret from Minghao. Even if you’d wanted it to be, Minghao would’ve worked it out in two days, tops. But, as you keep reiterating, it’s just a stupid crush. It’ll fade. Just like your crush on Kim Hongjoong two years ago, and your crush on Kim Namjoon the year before that. You have a habit of letting things die out, and you’re very comfortable in that habit.

“___,” Minghao says seriously, “you should tell him.”

“There are literally so many things I’d do before I confess. I’d rather memorise the proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem than do that.”

“You never know if you don’t try! And besides,” Minghao adds, softer, “even if he, you know, doesn’t feel that way, Joshua’s not... well, he won’t make you feel bad about anything. You guys can still be friends. Joshua’s nice.”

Which is the sentence that echoes in your head later that same day, when your meeting with Professor Lee and Joshua is over. Lee is long gone, leaving you and Joshua to go over a few minor details with your tutor schedules and office hour planning. Joshua just looks… really good, with all his files spread out in front of him, his silky voice talking about something stupid one of his tutees had done, his long, dyed hair slightly mussed.

“…and then he asked me how to find where the line intercepts the asymptote!” he finishes, chuckling. You’re a little late with your laugh, too busy focussing on how the afternoon sun lights up his hair, making it look lighter than it actually is.

Joshua calls your name, his smile shifting into something more concerned. “Are you okay?”

Your words stumble into each other on their way out. “I — well, yeah. Fine. I’m fine — good. I’m good.”

You guys can still be friends.

“Actually, Josh, I wanted to ask you something,” you say in a sudden emboldened rush.

“Go for it,” he says, smile fading ever so slightly. “Everything okay?”

“I — ” You hesitate, and in that split second, your courage disappears. You stare at him, and your brain decides for you: unattainable. Untouchable. “I forgot,” you finish lamely, ducking your head and shuffling your papers. Surprisingly, you’re not quite at the level of mortification you thought you would be.

“Ookay,” Joshua drags out, still watching you with concern, before he shakes it off and starts to gather his things. “Well, just let me know if you remember. I’m here for you, okay? We’re friends, not just TAs!”

That fucking word again. Friends. Only this time, you realise suddenly, it barely even hurts.

Maybe you’re just getting used to it.

“So…” Vernon says, sidling up to Chan in their shared kitchen, “how’s your TA?”

Chan sighs, looking mournfully at the spicy ramen he’d just made for himself. So much for peace. It must’ve been the smell that lured Vernon out of his bedroom, but he’s clearly an opportunist; killing two birds with one stone by prying into his life and poaching his food. “Joshua is fine.”

“That’s great, but I know that already,” Vernon says, as he helps himself to some of the ramen. Chan lets him, and that must be how his friend realises something is wrong, because he’s suddenly narrowing his eyes at Chan around his mouthful of noodles. “What is it? Did she turn you down?”

Chan drags out his words. “I haven’t said anything to her. She likes someone else. I can tell.”

Vernon considers this for a moment, characteristically quiet and contemplative. “Are you sure?”

“Well — not really. But I’m like, eighty percent sure? But also I don’t really know her that well, and Jeonghan once said to me she’s always super nice to everyone, so I don’t think she’s into me. But then I also don’t know if she’s into him either! Because she’s nice to me and him and apparently every motherfucker on the planet, so it’s, like, confusing, you know? But like. I think she is into him. She looks at him in a kinda way, so…”

Vernon chews with wide eyes. “Damn. That’s crazy, bro, what are you going to do?

Chan exhales deeply. “I don’t know. I think we’ll be better off as friends. I’ll probably just… give up.”

Vernon nods slowly, already backing away. “Good luck, dude. Here for you.” He raises an awkward fist in solidarity, and that’s when Chan glances at his bowl of ramen and realises it’s empty.

Chan allows himself one day to mope. He even cancels a session for the first time, shooting you a quick message to let you know he isn’t feeling great, and he wallows. Stays in bed the entire twenty four hours, scoffing all the ramen in the house, and now he owes Seungkwan and Vernon two packs each, but still — he feels better. He’s grateful he didn’t let it get too far, at the very least. You guys can still be friends, and one day this will be a funny joke he slips into conversation.

When he shows up to the next session, a few days later, he’s determined not to show any hint of awkwardness. He plunks his books down with a renewed energy, startling you as you take out your headphones.

“I was going to ask if you’re feeling better,” you start dryly, “but I can see that’s clearly the case.”

“Yeah. Nothing big, I’m fine now,” he waves off your concern. Heartsick, maybe. It still twinges at him, when he sees your soft smile, faintly smells your trademark perfume, your colour coded notes in front of you. He doesn’t know when highlighters became so endearing, when he learnt that you always overuse the pastel green one.

“Okay, so asymptotes,” you begin, and Chan scoots closer, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You’re my asymptote,” he says with solemn seriousness, “because I always tend towards you.”

You fluster easily, Chan has noticed. You avoid his gaze, but you’re laughing, telling him how terrible his jokes are but still — you’re laughing.

Suddenly, in only a few minutes, the thought of getting over you is a lot more daunting than he imagined. You make it harder when you laugh at the stupid joke he quips a moment later, too; you always tell him he has an infectious laugh, but yours is like music to his ears, no matter how hard you try to suppress it in the library.

“Come on,” you say, finally, gathering yourself together. “Asymptotes. It’s our last lesson for a bit. Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Leaving tomorrow afternoon,” he confirms. “What about you?”

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “Asymptotes will be the end of this chapter, so it’s perfect timing, really. We can start the new stuff after the break.”

Privately, Chan thinks the break really is perfect timing. He can wallow a little more, back at home with the comfort of his mother’s food and his father’s baseball reruns. He’ll come back ready to finish his tutoring, ace calculus, and be your friend. With firm emphasis on friend. For a moment, he considers you and Joshua as a couple, and honestly, as much as it stings, it’s cute. It makes sense.

After the break, winter hits full force. Your first tutoring session at the library is with Chan, and you’re layered up to the max, treating yourself to coffee as a shield against the bite of the cold outside. Vaguely, you remember Chan saying something about how he only drinks lattes hot, and so you order one for him too, taking extra packets of sugar and a stirring spoon on your way out. You know he likes to do the sugar himself.

“I’m late, I know.” You shrug off your coat when you arrive at your guys’ usual table, shaking the raindrops off your coat and hair with an apologetic smile. “It literally started pouring just two minutes before I got here, but here — coffee.” You unload your arms on the table in front of him, slightly breathless, tugging a hand through your untamed hair.

You catch Chan looking at you, something unreadable in his gaze, and you wince. “Sorry,” you apologise again.

“It’s okay,” he says, “I’ve just — I’ve never seen you so…”

“Messy?” you finish, laughing half self-consciously.

“Disorganised,” he corrects, and it feels gentler. “You’re kind of, like, windswept?” He pauses, quieter. “You look — pretty.”

You ran to the library a solid ten minutes ago. Your heart shouldn’t still be beating this fast. “Thank you,” you reply, just as quietly. There’s silence for a beat, fraught with some sort of tension, before you slap the textbook with too much enthusiasm, “So, uh, next chapter!”

“Next chapter,” he agrees quickly, and just like that, the weirdness dissipates, and it’s just you and Chan.

At least, until Joshua steps in the library. He’s browsing the section near you; you see him before he sees you, but only by a few seconds. You just have enough time to think how cute his scarf is, and then his eyes fall on you and Chan, and he waves with a smile.

You wave back as he nears the table. “I don’t want to interrupt,” Joshua explains quickly, “just wanted to say hi. To both of you. How’s it going?” He directs his question to Chan, adding — “Is she running you to the ground?”

“She wouldn’t,” Chan says simply. He doesn’t say much else as Joshua says his goodbyes and disappears between the shelves, but you’re still a little harried-looking, dusting down your clothes unnecessarily.

“So,” Chan says casually, as you return your focus to him and take a sip of water to try and cool you down, “how long have you had a crush on Joshua?”

You choke. Heat curls up your neck, and not because of your coughing — hot-faced and spluttering, you demand, “What are you talking about?” Even as you speak, you can tell your voice is pitched too high. Too defensive.

The younger boy gives you a look. “Come on. I’m not blind.”

You duck your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, so this question about limits — ”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he sings, cutting you off. “You have a big fat crush on Hong Joshua!”

Eyes wide, you slap a hand over his mouth, glancing behind you in horror. “Oh my God, keep your voice down!”

Beneath your palm, Chan gives you the most self-satisfied, victorious look, and belatedly, you realise you’ve given yourself away. “Fuck you,” you say, without any venom, releasing him and leaning back, trying extremely hard not to sulk. “It’s none of your business anyway.”

“It is when you’re making googly eyes at him right in front of me. Your student.”

“I don’t make googly eyes!” you object immediately, horrified. “I’ve never made googly eyes.”

“Whatever you say, teach.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t!”

“Okay, I said.” He still has that smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. It’s infuriating.

Briefly, your mind flits back to the stumbling boy you’d spoken to when he’d first asked for your help, back in late September. You miss him, you think sarcastically. He was the total opposite of the guy in front of you now.

“So?” Chan leans forward over the desk with raised, expectant eyebrows.

“So what?”

“So, how long? A month? Two?”

Your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Again.

“Longer?”

“A year,” you whisper, avoiding his gaze.

“A year?!” He practically yelps, and you have never wanted to bury yourself alive more than you do at this moment.

“A year and a half. Or something,” you confirm weakly, and then shake your head. You gently push his forehead with the eraser side of your pencil, forcing him back to his side of the desk. “But that doesn’t matter. I’m meant to be helping you with limits today.”

“I think you need more help than I do,” he says with sudden, sweet sympathy, patting your hand how he always does. You snatch it away and glare at him, but he ploughs on. “How have you not made a single move for a year and a half? You should do something about it. Move past the googly eyes.”

“Don’t want to. Can’t make me.” You tap your pencil against his open, untouched /textbook. “Now focus. On your work, and not on prying into my love life!”

He clicks his tongue softly, but picks up his own pencil again; inwardly, you let out a soft sigh of relief. Mortification still boils in the pits of your stomach — a guy you barely even know caught on so quickly. Are you really so obvious?

Chan works quietly for all of three minutes, and then he glances at you again. “I don’t want to hear it,” you say warningly, cutting him off before he can even start.

Amusement sparkles in his eyes. “I didn’t say anything!”

”You were going to.”

“I think you should make a move, that’s all.”

“I think it’s none of your business.”

“You said we were friends now! I’m trying to help my friend!”

“I take it back. Strictly tutor and student. We’re no longer friends.”

“No, seriously. I think you could totally get him to fall for you.”

You audibly snort. “Chan, do you know how many people have a crush on Joshua? He wouldn’t look twice at me. And I’m fine with that.”

“I’m not!”

You groan, tip your head on to the textbook in front of you. Then you turn, glaring at him and his entertained smile — with a smushed cheek and sulky pout, you ask, ”Why is this such a big deal to you, anyway?”

Chan almost seems to fold in on himself when you ask that. For someone so open and friendly, he has a way of shuttering down that startles you a little. It’s subtle, but you’re starting to notice it; his avoidant eyes and the faint pink on the apples of his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging with obviously feigned nonchalance. “I guess — I think you deserve to be happy.”

Sometimes people say things that hit you straight in the gut. Wind you. Leave you just a little bit breathless with their sincerity.

You open and close your mouth like a fucking fish. “Oh,” you say at last, stupidly, “that’s — that’s really nice of you, Chan.”

Whatever brief embarrassment he was experiencing, he seems to be over it. “I know. I’m the best. And that’s why I’m going to help you.”

You laugh again, amused and slightly endeared by his enthusiasm. “Okay, fairy godmother. Let’s get back to work, maybe.”

“No, seriously,” Chan insists, brown eyes sparkling. “I’m going to teach you how to flirt.”

The previous flattering you felt disappears in the space of a second. “Excuse me?” you say incredulously, but you’re laughing already, simply at the pure audacity. “Who says I don’t know how to flirt?”

“You did,” he says, matching your smile, “when you didn’t make a single move for a year and a half. But don’t worry. I’m going to help you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“No, but you need it, so I’m going to help you anyway,” he nods generously.

“How kind,” you say sarcastically, before thwacking his shoulder with your thinnest textbook.

Chan bursts out laughing as he dodges it, before switching back to that tone — the one that had you caving into him only a few weeks back, when he asked you to be his tutor. (Briefly, you wonder how it’s only been a few weeks. Part of you feels like you’ve known him forever.)

“Seriously,” he continues, “I can help you. I’ve literally never been rejected in my life.”

“Oh, yeah?” You snort, but honestly, you don’t doubt it.

He tilts his head to the side. “Well, like, once in middle school. It doesn’t count. 100% success rate, baby.”

“99%, maybe.”

“That is not how statistics works,” he says smugly. “Thought you’d know better, teach.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best. I’m going to get you a boyfriend; literally just give me twenty minutes at the end of the rest of our tutoring sessions.”

“We only have, like, three left.”

“That’ll be enough.”

Fuck it, you think. You don’t think this will help you with Joshua — nor do you want it to — but why the hell not? If it makes Chan happy, as it so clearly seems to…

“Ten minutes,” you sigh.

His eyes brighten. “Fifteen.”

“Fine,” you acquiesce after a short moment, waving your hand dismissively. “From next time, though. I don’t have time today.”

You try to ignore his Cheshire cat grin, but it’s infectious. You’re mirroring it by the time he slaps the desk victoriously, assuring you, “You won’t regret this, I swear.”

“I’m sure I will. So, limits — ”

“Limits,” he agrees, an infuriatingly triumphant smirk on his lips.

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. “You have no limits.”

“Lesson one,” Chan says, a little too gleefully, only a few days later. “Body language.”

He watches you pass a hand over your forehead with a grimace. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“First tip is to not be doing things like that when he speaks,” Chan says lightly, pulling your hands away from your forehead. He places his index fingers either side of your lips, and gently, carefully, he pulls the corners of them upwards. “Smile.”

You blink at him, and it is, unfortunately, the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “But,” he continues, shaking it off and pulling his fingers away, “you’re good at smiling anyway, so that’s not a key concern.”

Surprise appears on your features. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before. I usually get the opposite.”

Chan is slightly taken-aback, because you’re always smiling. You’re quiet, definitely, but you laugh super easy, and smile even easier than that.

“But go on.” You change the subject quickly, and Chan realises that despite yourself, you’re getting intrigued now.

“Tip number two,” he continues, magnanimously, “eye contact.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What? Why not?” The swiftness of your refusal startles him, but even as he asks, he kind of knows; you tend to avoid eye contact, especially when you’re shy, or embarrassed, or confused, or… well, a lot of the time. “You can practise.”

You look at him with horror. “Practise?”

“With me,” he nods, steeling himself already. “Now.”

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke,” he lies straight to your face, just to make you relax. Sure enough, your shoulders loosen almost instantly, and you let out half a smile. “Come on. Just for two minutes.”

“Okay,” you finally agree, meeting his stare. Chan leans forward just the slightest bit, and for the first time in his life, he understands what it means to sink into someone else’s eyes. Your gaze isn’t intense, but it’s captivating, and he’s not sure if that’s his own feelings surfacing up again, or it’s just — natural. Either way, being this close to you is doing something funny to his ribs, the same thing that happened when you brought him coffee.

He tries to distract himself. “Can’t believe we only have two tutoring sessions left.” His voice has lowered instinctively, taken on a slightly gravelly tone that seems to surprise you a little Your lips part for a second, and then you nod; he watches your throat bob as you swallow.

“Yeah,” you say, equally as hushed. “Time flies, huh?”

His lips are dry. The tip of his tongue darts out, and he watches as you seem to follow it. “Yeah. When you’re having fun.”

Chan goes home that night more confused than before, and it only gets worse when Seungkwan’s waiting for him in the living room, hands on hips. One look at him, and Chan can tell he’s going to play interrogator.

“I just don’t know if this is a good idea,” Seungkwan says, at last, after Chan slumps on to the couch. “Helping her get with Joshua. You’re going to break your own heart.”

Chan wrinkles his nose. “I am not. We’re just friends, Seungkwan. I’m over it.”

Seungkwan looks at him disbelievingly, and Chan rolls his eyes. ��I’m getting over it,” he corrects himself. “But we’re fine. Don’t worry.”

“I’m your best friend,” Seungkwan replies instantly, “Of course I’m going to worry. You just — you open your heart so easily. Which is a good thing!” he tacks on hastily, “But she… well.”

Arching a brow, Chan leans forward. “She what?”

“Let me put it this way. You’re a romantic, and from what I can tell, she’s a cynic.”

Chan has never given much thought to what other people think about you, not until now. In all honesty, he’d had a similar perception of you, at first. Extremely organised. Kind of stoic. Nice, but distant. But now, he’s sure that nothing has ever been further from the truth. You’re reserved, that goes without a doubt, but you’re not cold. You’re kind. Care immensely for your friends, even though there are only a few of them. Shy, but sweet, and he thinks it’s a fucking shame that people can’t see that. He’d thought you were distant, but he’s heard other people describe you as uptight. Snobbish.

All people do is talk, he thinks with a little contempt.

He looks back at his roommate. “You don’t know her, Seungkwan. She’s not a cynic.”

His friend shrugs. “I trust you. Just… be careful.”

Your second “lesson” with Chan begins with him grabbing you by the hand and pulling you in between random bookshelves.

“Stand here,” he instructs, before patting you on the shoulders. You can feel the warmth of his hands through your sweater. “Okay,” he says, “lesson two is all about conversation. He’s going to fall in love with your mouth — not like that,” he adds quickly, when he sees you biting down on your lip to hide your laugh. “Mind out the gutter, teach.”

You grin at him cheekily. “You’re the teacher now. Come on, then.” The truth is, these lessons are more entertaining than anything. You’re enjoying it, hanging out with Chan without having to remind him to finish his questions or double-check the textbook.

“Be serious!” he complains, but his eyes have that usual sparkle to them. He glances at your clothes for a moment. “Nice sweater, by the way. You look good in blue. But anyway, quick tips — remember what he likes, compliment him, talk about what you have in common, stuff like that. Okay, I’m going to go over and I want you to imagine I’m Joshua. So you see me randomly in the library, what are you doing?”

You snort. “Running in the other direction.”

He holds a finger up, hiding a smile at your silly answer. “Bzzzt. Wrong answer. You lose ten points.”

“When did I have ten points to begin with?” you argue, but still, you’re struggling to suppress your giggles.

“You didn’t. You’re in the negatives.” He flicks you gently on the forehead. “Try again.”

“Ow,” you complain, pouting. “Okay, I’m meant to say hi.”

“Ding! Ten points. Back to zero.” Chan waits expectantly, and you look at him in confusion. He motions with his fingers. “Go on. Say hi.”

“I am not roleplaying with you!” you hiss, horrified, pushing his arm gently. He stumbles back exaggeratedly. “We do math, Chan, not drama!”

“Actually I do math and history,” he corrects nonchalantly, “and history is dramatic.”

Flummoxed, you repeat after him — “History? Since when do you do history?”

“Since, like, three years ago…?” He laughs at your expression, but you can’t bring yourself to mirror his lightness, for once.

You feel rooted to your spot. “You’re a double major?” Something uncomfortable stirs in the pits of your stomach, and you know you’re not being rational — there’s no reason why this should jar you so much, but you feel jarred. “How did I not know this?” you ask, more to yourself. You turn to him, head moving so sharply he almost steps back. “Did you ever mention this?

Chan’s smile is fading. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs awkwardly, “it never came up. It’s not a big deal!”

“It is to me,” you insist, “Chan, you’re my friend! I should know this stuff!”

“It’s not a big deal,” he repeats, his brows furrowed. “Seriously. You know me better than half my friends already, and we’ve only been friends for like, a few months.” He attempts a smile — “You even know about the whole story behind that girl rejecting me back in middle school, I don’t tell that to everyone.”

“Yeah,” you say distractedly, “I guess so.”

Chan looks at the time. “Don’t you have a meeting now? With Joshua?”

You tilt your head, confused, your mind still on his history major. “I do?”

“It’s Wednesday,” he reminds you, and you snap out of it, checking the time yourself. “You’re going to be late,” Chan laughs, gently pushing you towards your bag. “Go!”

You wave at him as you gather your stuff haphazardly, calling an, “I’ll text you later!” ok your way out.

“Remember my top tips!” he calls back, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. You laugh and flip him off, bundling yourself out the library — only to run smack into another girl leaving at the same time.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” you apologise, helping her pick up her pencils. “I wasn’t looking!”

“It’s okay,” she assures you quickly. “By the way,” she adds, “you and your boyfriend are so cute!”

“My… boyfriend?” You hand her stuff back to her with a furrowed brow.

She beams at you sunnily. “Yeah! I always see you guys on your cute study dates over there, it’s soo sweet. The way you guys look at each other is, like, to die for.”

“Thank you,” you say automatically, before opening your mouth to correct her. But it’s too late, she’s gone and you’re left standing in the exit with a thousand thoughts rushing through your mind, ones that preoccupy you all the way back to yours and Joshua’s shared office.

They only multiply when you see Joshua, and feel absolutely nothing. There’s no typical dip in your stomach, no stuttering heartbeat, just a familiar smile and nothing else, which is when you realise — you haven’t been feeling anything like what you used to feel.

At least, not around Joshua.

“That’s the first time you’ve been late, like, ever,” Joshua observes, “Were you with Chan?”

“Yeah, I — uh, how did you know that?” You cut yourself off to stare at him in surprise.

“Our tutoring schedules are right there,” he smiles, nodding to the pinboard next to him. You almost sigh in relief. A normal explanation, finally. Something that makes sense. These realisations and observations are nothing more than —

“But you always have a certain look after you see him anyway,” Joshua continues obliviously. “Your eyes get all shiny. You smile more.” He pauses, grins at you knowingly, “You guys are close, huh?”

“I — I don’t — ” You stutter feebly, because suddenly everything is hot and you need to lie down. “I don’t feel well,” you almost shout, way too loud; Joshua startles, but nods.

“Okay,” he says, worriedly. “We can reschedule, but do you need a ride home?”

“No!” you snap, before taking a deep breath. “Sorry. No. I think — the fresh air will be good for me.”

Joshua lets you go, and you feel close to tears the whole way home.

You can’t stomach this, you think, curled up in a ball under your duvet. It doesn’t make sense; you may be a math major, but none of this is adding up.

“I like Joshua,” you say out loud, and it sounds hollow. It sounds false. It doesn’t bring anything with it.

Slowly, tentatively, you say, “I like Chan.”

That brings so much, but more than anything, it brings warmth. Warmth like the serious brown of his eyes, his rough hands, his smile, his laugh, the way he chews his lip when he’s thinking hard about a question.

You stick your head in a pillow and let out a scream.

Chan doesn’t know if he should invite you to the end of semester party that Seungcheol is throwing, considering his absolute failure in getting over you, but he does it anyway. He invited you to the Halloween one, and you turned him down, saying you had plans with some other friends, but he reckons it’s worth trying again, so he does just that.

Your response comes within minutes.

[16:43] you: isn’t that the night before our last tutoring?

[16:44] chan: i know! but i’ll be on time i promise i wont even drink that much [16:44] chan: it’ll be like a celebration!!

[16:45] you: of what?

[16:45] chan: you put up with me for a full semester :)

He watches your typing bubble appear and reappear multiple times with a frown, until:

[16:48] you: i don’t “put up” with you chan

A smile. A big cheesy one that has his cheeks aching a little.

[16:48] you: we’re friends, aren’t we?

No matter how hard he tries, that still stings.

The party sneaks up faster than expected, and Chan agrees to meet you there, because you’re coming with Minghao, and he agreed to help Seungcheol set up before he knew you were coming. Which is, you know, whatever. He’s not a little upset that he doesn’t get to pick you up in his car and do the whole opening-your-door-for-you thing — not at all, no matter what Seungkwan tries to imply.

Joshua probably would’ve, he thinks miserably, as people begin to arrive. That’s what you’d once said, ages ago, that you liked about him.

‘He’s sweet,’ you’d said, ‘and he, like, holds doors open for me.’

‘The bar is in hell,’ Chan had said in response, making you snort with laughter, hiding your face.

“No moping at my party!” Seungcheol yells as he sails by, carrying a load of ping pong balls — they’re setting up beer pong in the other room, but for once, Chan doesn’t feel the need to take up Jeonghan’s challenge. He dithers by the door, looking up hopefully every time someone enters, and every time, it isn’t you.

Until it is. You come in just after Minghao, and Chan’s breath is quite literally taken away. It’s horrifyingly cliché, how gorgeous you look — you always do, but he’s never seen you dressed up before. Not like this, with a blue dress that falls to your mid-thigh, hair done to perfection. Makeup too, that makes your eyes look bigger and softer, that matches your outfit exactly.

Something swells inside him when he sees you on your tiptoes, craning your neck this way and that; instinctively, he thinks you’re looking for him. And when your eyes finally land on his, you smile so big that his insides turn molten; hot and tight and full, so incredibly full. He moves towards you without even realising, a moth to a flame.

“You look — ” He swallows. Hard. “Amazing. You look amazing.”

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can, Minghao mutters something in your ear, gesturing to a room on the right before tugging you away. Chan watches as you send him an apologetic wave — and then you’re gone, melting into the sea of people that Seungcheol somehow knows. And he’s tugged in completely the opposite direction, casting one longing look after you.

About an hour into the party, you see Chan with someone else. A girl. Short, dark-haired, bright-eyed — pretty. So pretty.

You’re not one to get jealous, usually. But that’s the only word to describe the way your stomach drops and your heart twists. Green-eyed monster, rearing in your chest. She makes him laugh, and he touches her arm when he does, and honestly, it’s a completely innocent picture. They’re probably just friends, and you’re usually so secure in yourself, but with Chan — you feel everything but secure. It was only last week you allowed yourself to acknowledge you were halfway to falling in love with him.

Joshua was familiar, at least. This is not, which is why it took you so long to accept it.

You smooth down your dress (“You look good in blue.”), and watch as Chan leans down to hear her over the music. Maybe it’s the second drink in your hand, which you’d only taken after being egged on by Mingyu — he’d handed you his “professional” jungle juice. It tastes like shit, but recent events have brought with them a desire to get absolutely fucking wasted.

Tragically, you’ve managed tipsy at best, but it’s still enough to have you over-emotional, and with one last look at Chan and the pretty girl, you escape the watchful eyes of Minghao to the balcony of Seungcheol’s disgustingly wealthy place to cry. Which you do, with shaky, gulping breaths, and blurred vision.

When you’ve calmed yourself just the slightest bit, you glance at yourself in your phone camera, lit up by the yellow lighting inside. The girl in the mirror is almost unrecognisable — drunk and face streaked with cheap mascara (advertised as waterproof but clearly not).

God, your head aches. When did life become so fucking complicated?

You know when; you know exactly when, that little snarky voice in the corner of your head tells you, flashing you an image of a certain brown-haired boy with his stupid smile. You know that this mess started somewhere around when he waltzed into your life, brandishing his flirting tips and stupid math puns. What you don’t know is when he slipped his way into your heart, when you somehow gave him the power to crush it in his fingers.

That’s what it feels like. Lee Chan has your heart in the palm of his hand, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue.

The thought makes you feel slightly sick — or maybe it’s the overconsumption of the jungle juice that Mingyu cooked up, but whatever it is, your stomach churns uncomfortably, leaving acid climbing your throat. You cast a contemptuous look at the mixture in your red solo cup, and with a sigh, dump the rest of it over the balcony next to you. You ignore the call of hey, fuck you! that comes from below, instead sinking to the floor, hugging your knees and leaning your aching, hot against the cool metal railing to blink away the tears that burn behind your eyes.

Momentarily you consider how at the start of the year, you’d never have expected yourself to be here, not in a million years. At the SVT frat house, hidden in a corner to weep over a boy. A boy that isn’t Hong Joshua — a boy that is, technically, in some ways, your student.

“Fuck you, Lee Chan,” you say bitterly, and as always, you can’t bring yourself to mean it.

“Why’s that?” A familiar voice has you snapping your head towards the balcony doorway. Tall and smiling as always, Joshua regards you with a look of mixed sympathy and pity. You resent it.

“Fuck you too!” You try to scowl at him; it doesn’t quite work, and you’re too drunk and tired to muster up the energy to be angry at him. Joshua didn’t really do anything; the only crime you can hold against him is obliviousness. He’s not the one holding your heart in his hands. You don’t think he ever really was — at the very least, what you felt with him was never like this. There was never so much.

Joshua doesn’t say anything, just laughs and sits next to you on the floor. Both of you have your backs pressed to the railing, and he nudges you softly with his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

You swallow thickly. “No.”

He smiles ever so slightly, nodding to your tearful face. “Yeah, I mean, I figured.”

You let out a watery giggle. “God. I’m such a mess.”

Joshua hums, like he’s actually considering your words deeply. “You aren’t, really. You’re like, the least messy person I know.”

You sniffle a little. “What?”

“Come on, ___, you’re like the most put-together person in this whole university. It’s kind of refreshing to see you outside of that.”

“What, you enjoy seeing me cry?”

“No, of course not,” he says quickly, bumping your shoulder. “Just. In general, I mean. You’ve been happier lately.”

You gesture to your tear tracks. “This is happy?”

Joshua clicks his tongue at you. “I think Chan is really good for you,” he says finally, quietly. Like he knows he’s broaching a forbidden topic — which he is. You flinch at the very sound of his name. “He makes you happy. That’s what I mean. You should give yourself a shot.”

“No,” you say immediately, automatically. “I can’t.”

“You could,” he says, without reproach. “If you let yourself.”

You let that settle. Silence falls — or at least as much silence as you can get when you’re metres away from a house party. “I used to have a crush on you, you know.” You don’t look at him, facing straight ahead thoughtfully.

Joshua smiles, rueful. “I know.”

You snap your head round, and your disbelief must be etched onto your face because he laughs. “I could tell,” he shrugs. “You got flustered so easily, sometimes.”

The slightest of groans. “I do that, apparently.” You hug your legs to you again, resting your cheek on your knees as you look at Joshua, sitting by your side. “I almost asked you out, too.”

“I probably would’ve said yes,” he confesses honestly, but still, somehow, you don’t feel anything. “But then I saw how you are with Chan. And that is not like this,” he continues gently. “The way you looked at me back then is nothing, compared to how you look at him.”

“Don’t tell him.” You’re not afraid to beg.

“God forbid you let yourself feel something, right?” Joshua laughs a little, but his eyes bore into you with sincere sympathy. “Why are you so afraid of your own feelings?”

You don’t know what to say. But you’re saved from having to think about it, because Lee Chan himself sticks his head through the door, something shifting on to his face when his eyes finally land on you.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you for — ” he freezes for a second, the exact moment his eyes land on Joshua sitting next to you “ — ages,” he finishes, slowly, before taking a step back. “I should go.”

“No, stay,” Joshua says, quickly, standing up. “We were just finished.”

Chan fidgets with the end of his shirt as Joshua leaves, casting one more empathetic smile at you, and the moment the older boy is gone, Chan steps closer towards you. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t realise he was — you’re crying.” His change in tone is so abrupt, from apologetic to dead serious in half a second. ”What happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, too high-pitched. “I’m fine now. It’s fine.”

“Was it Joshua?” he demands, already looking back in the direction his friend disappeared to. “What did he say?”

“What? No. It wasn’t him.” You try to change the subject. “I am older than you, you know, I don’t need to be babysat. I hope you didn’t interrupt your fun just to come looking for me.”

He smiles, but his eyes don’t. “Only by a year. And anyway, I have more fun with you.”

You hate that your mind flits back to that girl, the laughing one. “What about your friends? I saw you with, um, what’s her name? The pretty one, dark hair?”

Subtlety is not your strong suit.

Chan just blinks at you. “You mean Jana? Yeah, she wanted me to play beer pong against her and her girlfriend. But I did that.” Something untwists in your stomach. He steps closer, fishing a tissue out of nowhere, and with the tenderest touch, wipes at the makeup staining your cheeks.

He’s so close, you can see every individual eyelash. “Why? Were you jealous?” he asks lightly, referring to Jana as he uses one hand to cup your cheek and remove the dark mess under your eyes more carefully.

“No!” Your voice is harsher than intended, jerking out of his grip. and his eyes flick to yours with worry.

“I was kidding,” he says softly, frowning, “Is everything okay, teach?”

Alcohol blurs your rational thinking. You lean your forehead against his chest with the deepest sigh. “Sorry. Sorry.” A short breath. “Chan, I’m so tired.”

He wraps his arms around you, rubbing your back up and down. “Are you drunk?”

You shake your head. “I was tipsy, but I only had two drinks. I’m sober now. Just… exhausted.”

“I can take you home,” he murmurs against your ear; he’s so warm, he always is, but his touch sends goosebumps all over your skin. “Is that what you want?”

You lean back, look him in the eye, but neither of you let go of each other. Eye contact. From lesson one. “What’s the third lesson?”

“What?”

“Tomorrow. Our last lesson. What’s it on?”

He’s silent for a minute. “I don’t know,” he replies, at last.

You cock your head to the side, questioningly, and it’s like something in him snaps, and the words come rushing out, stumbling into each other — “I’ve been making these up as I go along. On the spot.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised but too numb to feel it properly. “Why?”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, looking defeated. “I don’t know. Well. I do. I just don’t know how to tell you.”

Something clicks for you. I’ve got a great teacher. You’re my favourite too. You look — pretty. I think you deserve to be happy. You look good in blue.

“Chan,” you say, taking an abrupt step back. Your voice is hoarse suddenly, scratchy with yet another realisation. “What colour is my dress?”

He looks utterly perplexed by your swift change in subject, but he obliges you anyway. “Blue. Why?”

“Do you remember,” you begin, voice shaking ever so slightly. This is the precipice. You’re taking the leap. God forbid you let yourself feel something — well, you are. “Do you remember a week ago? Lesson two?”

“Conversation,” he nods, and you can see his mind working a hundred miles an hour.

“I was wearing that sweater, and you said — ”

“You look good in blue,” he finishes at once. His eyes flit between you and the dress, and you see the exact moment it dawns on him; the light of comprehension. “But you — Joshua — ”

You shake your head at the question he doesn’t ask.

It’s like he’s frozen. A minute or a century passes, you’re not sure which, before his eyes meet yours again, filled with something heavy, raw, tender emotion. “How long?”

“Long enough,” you say, and then you’re kissing him, or he’s kissing you, you’re not sure who moves first, or if you move at the same time, but whatever it is — you’re melting into him and he is melting into you, and it’s like your heart gives a happy little sigh. Your shoulders relax, and the tension of the past few weeks evaporates in a few gentle touches.

You break apart with a soft little ‘tch’ sound, and he looks at you with full eyes and the shyest smile you’ve ever seen him wear.

“You know, technically, you’re still my student,” you say, slightly breathless, entirely giddy.

He rolls his eyes, tugging you back in already, sliding his arms around your waist. “Yeah, for a week.”

“And a half,” you add, as he begins to kiss up your neck. “You’d better ace your exam next week, after all our hard work.”

He presses his nose into your neck, huffing out a laugh. “I can’t believe that’s what you’re worried about. Now, of all things.”

“That’s what you should be worried about,” you say, bringing a hand up to his hair, running through it with your fingers as you’ve wanted to for so long. “That, and walking me home, maybe.”

“I fully intend to do at least one of those things,” he says, landing a chaste kiss on your lips. “We have a lot to talk about, you know. Starting with me asking you out. Properly.”

A hint of mischief appears in your smile. “Do well in your exam, and I’ll consider it.”

Chan pulls back, a familiar, confident smirk on his lips. “You have yourself a deal. But until then…”

“We’re still at a party,” you say, dodging his lips with a laugh, even though you really don’t want to. Not at all. “We can’t be that couple.”

He drops his forehead against yours. “We can be whatever the fuck we want. Nobody’s looking, anyway.”

And so you let him kiss you, again and again and again, until he walks you home, and does the same at your door, and the same in your living room. Over and over, making up for all the times he wanted to but couldn’t, he whispers. Your whole body softens at the weight of his hands, travelling the small of your back, cupping your cheek, squeezing your hips. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and everything makes sense. Everything adds up.

a/n: (yes another) i hate this so much but i think i’ve been dealing with it too long so im just going to. throw it out there. thank you for reading!!! i’d love to hear what you think!!!! hopefully i’ll venture into longfic more often <3

#seventeen fluff #chan fluff #dino fluff #dino x reader #chan x reader #seventeen x reader #dino comfort #seventeen imagines #seventeen fic #seventeen fanfic #seventeen headcanons #chan comfort #chan angst #dino angst #chan fic #dino fic

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zyafics · 7 months ago

Text

PROOFS | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (drabble) | x Academic Weapon!Female Reader

Summary — When you're at a party instead of finishing a math assignment due tomorrow, the answer suddenly comes to you and you need Rafe's help to finish it. Word Count — 1.6k.

Content — established relationship, fluff, suggestive tone (implicit), and Rafe being a frat bro. Reader is an academic weapon and nicknamed "Ace" by Rafe's frat brothers.

Dedication — to @winterrrnight because of her comments on my initial post and dedicated to the anon who has to take the 3-hour test in a couple of days, i know ur gonna do great!

You should definitely be studying.

Instead, you're at a white lies party hosted by Rafe's fraternity. The Greek letters shining in white neon lights behind the DJ booth, which is blasting 2000s throwbacks.

The air is electrifying with a drunken buzz from the copious amounts of free alcohol from the kitchen. You were one of them. While you didn't have much, other than the red solo cup that Rafe got for you when you first arrived, it was enough to send a thrill through your system and loosen you up.

You're dancing with a random group of girl friends you found upon arrival, swaying your hips to the music with your head tilted back and a smile gleaming from your lips.

Rafe is watching you. Despite being with his frat brothers, off on the edge of the room and talking about the most random shit, his eyes always search for you from a distance. Making sure you're okay. Making sure no guy is messing with his girl.

When his gaze connects with yours, he tips his head to his direction, gesturing for you to come over. You, in your docile state from the singular beer, listen and pardon from your drunken pack of new friendships.

Rafe's arm wraps around your waist as you approach, dipping his head to deliver a greeting kiss. When you pull back, you’re a bit breathless.

"Hi, baby." He says through the loud volume of the party, the resonance of the speaker blasting the music is pumping through your body and matching your heart rate. "How's the party?"

You shrug. He knows you're still worried about your math assignment due tomorrow. It's the same paper you spent the past fourteen hours camped out in the library trying to solve. Rafe took one look at it and couldn't offer any assistance but neither was coping up in the study room till your brain is fried helping either. So, he invited you out, hoping some alcohol and music would relax you.

It works. Sort of. You are having fun, but the lingering reminder of your assignment sits in the back of your head. Edging your brain, trying to piece together the answers when you know it's there. It's a matter of time.

"Hey, Ace." One of Rafe's frat brothers, Lucas, greets. "How you been?"

You turn to him, blinking through a bit of your haze to recognize the face. "Could be better," you answer, grabbing the red solo from Rafe's hand and taking a sip for yourself. "Do you guys have anything other than beer?"

"Slow down," Lucas chuckles. "You barely attend any of our parties and you wanna start off on something hard?"

"I already drank the beer." You retort. "I gotta get something stronger. Make me forget about all my responsibilities for the night."

Rafe shakes his head, taking the cup back out of your hand and downing the rest. "You're gonna figure it out," he affirms, low enough for only you to hear, to calm your doubts and worries about getting the problem set done. "Just give yourself a break."

You frown but don't say anything else. Rafe returns into an easy conversation with the rest of his brothers, talking about an upcoming event or some random sorority girl one of them hooked up with, and you tune out. Your eyes glaze over to the dance floor in thoughts.

Your mind falls back to your mathematics. The problem flashes through your head, in perfect memory, as you recount the instructions. You consider what you were missing. Since you've been away from the assignment for the entire evening, your mind is clear from all the symbols and equations that were melting into the page.

Now, it comes fresh.

And suddenly, it all... clicks.

"Oh my god." You mutter to yourself. The shock reverberates to the rest of your body. "Oh my fucking god."

Rafe catches the end of your sentence and glances over to you. You don't look at him, pulling away from his grasp and making a direct beeline to the exit. You don't leave—no, you have no time to go back to your dorm and write this down—instead, you go to the front door where a couple of freshman brothers are acting as in-house bouncers for the party.

You tap their shoulders, and when they turn, grab the marker off the table. You don't bother to tell them, immediately uncapping and begin scribbling the problem onto your arm.

Just a few lines in, you realize it won't be enough space. The proof is too big.

Your mind is spinning. You can't go home. You won't have time before the answer flees your drunken brain. But you can't write it down. You don't have space.

Then, an idea crosses your mind.

You rush back to the dance floor, searching for Rafe. He remains at the same spot as he was last time, and when he sees you approach him, frantic and hurried, his brows pull together in concern.

"What's wrong—"

"Come on," you grab his hand and pull him away from his brothers. You don't bother apologizing for interrupting their conversations. Since you are well-acquainted with the house, you pull him to the back where you know there won't be many people.

You were right. Saved for a few drunken make-out sessions spread across the lounge, no one was there. You pull off to a quiet corner, mimicking the couples, and release your hold on him.

"Take off your shirt."

"What?" Rafe thinks he heard you wrong. You were always more conservative when it comes to sex—at least, the location—that the command seems like an auditory hallucination in his ears. "You wanna fuck?"

Normally, you would flush at such crude remarks, but you found none of that today. Too concentrated on saving your work on physical evidence, trying to remember your answers before they fade away.

He doesn't do it. He thinks you're joking.

Since he isn't complying, you start clawing at his shirt, trying to pull it off of him yourself.

He chuckles to himself. He thinks you're drunk and horny. A nice combo he has not seen from you so far. "Really, baby? Right here? I mean, I don't mind—"

"Shut up." You shush with a mumble and Rafe pushes your hands away, finally taking off his shirt for you. The white lie scribbled in his handwriting: I said I don't hate you, is thrown on his arm.

"Happy?"

You didn't even get the chance to admire him. The tone muscles. The perfect planes of his chest. Instead, you say, "turn around."

"New position?"

"Shut. Up!"

All he does is laugh, catching the attention of a couple of college students who pull away from amorous kisses to spare a glance in your direction. While there's a faint heat tinting your cheeks, from your boyfriend's words, you don't care. You were in a feverish state.

Rafe does what you say. He turns and you uncap the marker, starting at the edge of his shoulder blades and begin writing down your proof. Your assignment requires you to prove an equation for being true, utilizing implicit differentiation, trigonometry identities and partial derivatives. You've been stuck on it for the past three days.

Now, it's coming in waves. Of course you would shift it around. Of course you would have to cut the variables in half and move them to the other side. Of course you would forgo the x for the z, and vice versa. Of course, of course, of course.

Rafe feels the tip of the marker moving against his skin quickly, in rapid succession, trying to get everything down. At the rate you're going, you could be smearing the answers across his back instead of getting to your solution.

When you finish, your hand aching from how fast you were going, his entire back is covered in mathematical symbols and equations. Your eyes check through your proof, descending down until you get to his waist, and clears it's correct. "Done."

Rafe turns back around, raising a brow.

"What did you just write?"

You beam in pride. "I just finished my homework."

"On my back?"

You laugh, your lips pulled together in a genuine smile. Something he's glad you're showing off, after seeing how stressed you were with figuring out the puzzle. He’s proud of you. "I told you you'll get it. My brothers call you Ace for a reason."

You roll your eyes at the nickname. Since Rafe goes off and always brags about how smart you are—how you are the first one in your class to raise your hand, how you graduated valedictorian from your high school, and how you've been on the Dean's List for the past two consecutive years—his fraternity brothers has declared you a clear winner. An Ace, if you will.

Rafe glances down at you, at your white lie written across your short top, and licks his bottom lip.

"What?" You ask.

"I find it unfair you get to write shit on me but I can't do the same."

"What do you want to do? Sign my tits?"

He gives you a look that says that isn't a bad idea and you roll your eyes at your boyfriend. Of course.

You uncap the marker, handing it to him. He takes it, leaning forward and tugging down your white top to reveal your bra and begins scribbling his signature across your breasts. You giggle at the sensation.

When he finishes, you glance down to see he did sign it. Alongside with another message.

Not Rafe Cameron's Property.

"God, you're a caveman," you declare with a laugh, knowing this follows along with the white lie protocol.

"And you're mine."

He throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. He doesn't even bother to throw his shirt back on; displaying the intelligence of your scribbles on his back in full glory.

"Now, let's rejoin the party and celebrate."

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