If you would like to read this scenario with EXO's Lay instead of optional bias, feel free to read it here instead :)

A pair of hands rested on the stack of papers sitting precariously on your desk. You looked up, eyes meeting with the younger if the three editors. His face was familiar, a distractingly handsome and irritatingly particular member of the newspaper staff. He was part of the reason you found work as a columnist to be stressful, trying to meet your deadlines without being chastised by him or your superiors.

“Hey, the chief is really busy, he wants you send the tourism article to me instead,” he said in a soft voice. You nodded, giving him a polite smile before returning your focus to the computer.

The familiar clicking of your computer keys tapped softly in your ears, the smell of roasted coffee in the nearby break room tempting your nose. The travel and tourism wasn’t your favorite article to write, but it was a small step towards your goal of being able to join the group as an editor.

When the article finished, you saved your work and wandered over to the printer to make a copy. His office was across the room, a small but stylish space with windows on two sides. He was sitting at his desk, a pair of reading glasses pushed over the bridge of his nose. From your seat you could see him tapping his long fingers on the desk, a constant rhythm of boredom and restlessness.

You walked over to the door with his name on the metal plate, knocking twice politely before wandering inside.

“I finished it,” you said, handing him the sheet of paper. He took it, hesitating for a moment as your hands bumped together. His other hand reached to his head, brushing the hair to one side. Your eyes wandered about the room, noting the careful organization of his belongings.

“Hey, do you think you’d want to-” he began, stumbling over his words. Raising an eyebrow, your expression asked him to continue. With a red pen, he circled a few random sentences on your article, hardly glancing at the paper. “Fix these and bring it back.”

You took the article, walking out in confusion. It wasn’t until you reached your desk that you bothered to look back at his office. His fingers combed roughly through his hair, leaving a few pieces standing at awkward angles.

His markings on your article didn’t make sense, a few of the red circles around blank spots on the paper. Sighing loudly, you printed another copy of the same article. Again you approached his office, placing it before him on the mahogany desk.

“I didn’t quite understand the changes you wanted me to make…Could you be a little more specific,” you questioned. He sighed, an embarrassed blush tinting his cheeks.

“I’m sorry. It’s fine.” You turned to go, confused by his uncomfortable demeanor. He was struggling with his words, faltering and stumbling into a tensioned atmosphere thick with discomfort. You noticed a pale wooden guitar sitting in the corner.

“Do you play?” you asked, gesturing towards the instrument in an effort to break the tension. He looked relieved, standing up to hold his guitar.

“I do! Do you want to hear something?” You nodded. Sitting on the edge of his desk, he began to strum a familiar song. He looked comfortable, bobbing his head in time to the soft acoustics. When he finished, you clapped happily.

“That was amazing! I never knew you could play guitar.”

He smiled, reaching a hand to the back of his neck.

“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry for being weird earlier. I just really wanted to talk to you. I was wondering…” He looked into your eyes, nervousness quivering lightly in his expression. “Do you want to go out sometime?” You nodded enthusiastically, reaching forward to pluck one of the guitar’s strings.

“I’d like that.”