Junmyeon stares at his economics textbook. He’s read the same paragraph about market failure three times—and he still doesn’t understand a word. It’s really not because he’s bad at econ (In fact, if he weren’t so humble, he’d admit to himself that he studies way more for this class than he really needs to. But his definition for prepared is usually everyone else’s for overkill).

It’s because Jiyoung—the Kang Jiyoung, president of chorus, star of every school musical since forever, and most importantly, daughter of the principal (in other words: she’s a goddess, he’s a mere mortal)—is sitting next from him, taking notes in cursive red ink on a legal pad.

As soon as they ended up in the same class, she had marched up to him in chorus, with a smile a little too intentional to be completely innocent.

“You’re Junmyeon, right? We’re in Econ together.”

Junmyeon nodded, because words had somehow escaped him. He remembers she brushed her hair off her shoulder, before, with some sort of furious yank, just tied it up with a red ribbon (red is probably her favorite color, he’s realized). He really hopes he didn’t stare too long.

“I’m missing class on Friday for rehearsal. Can you catch me up at the library this weekend. Sunday, at 2?”

He nods again. He kind of wonders whether or not she thinks he’s mute, because his vocal chords have a tendency not to work in her presence. She smiles again, this time dazzling and blindingly beautiful.

“Great!” With that, she scribbled her phone number onto his palm (red ink, as always). “See you then!”

Jongdae had laughed at him for a good half hour (“dude, grow a spine.”) before prancing off to practice his duet with Liyin for their next concert. Okay, so maybe Jongdae's right. Maybe he could have handled that a little more suavely, with a lot less speechlessness. He’ll be less shocked next time, he tells himself. Now he has time to mentally prepare himself.

Except, she left him speechless again, when he realized that she barely needed his help to catch onto the lectures. (“Oh, I see. So it’s all because of diminishing returns.” With that, she flipped past two days’ worth of lectures.)

He knows half the school is in love with her. WIth startling clarity, he realizes why no one confesses to her. She’s terrifyingly competent, with the credentials to boot.

Somehow this evolved into weekly study sessions, half the time Jiyoung going over notes with him, half the time Junmyeon asking her questions. He dares to ask her if these meetings actually help her at all, and she laughs—unexpectedly loud and slightly brassy, but he loves it nonetheless (“Of course it does. Why would I be here if it didn’t?”) and Junymeon sort of falls in love with her all over again.

Junmyeon would sort of like to carry an umbrella for Jiyoung when it’s raining or buy her roses for no reason whatsoever other than to make her smile. He’d even agree to couple tees, as much as he cringes over such blatant displays of relationship.

He’s even gone so far as to write her a letter that’s burning a hole in his backpack. It’s all cheesy prose and sentimental love poetry about how he sees the moon in her eyes and her soul is a garden and god, would she please just go out with him please. It’s admittedly embarrassing and admittedly genuine. Junmyeon wonders if he should give it to her.

Jiyoung taps a red-painted fingernail against her pencil, and Junmyeon gulps, averting his eyes back into his textbook.

“You know...” She giggles, hiding behind a manicured hand. “You could be less obvious about the staring.”

But actually, Jiyoung's not that type of girl. She doesn’t live in fairy tales or need a prince to tell her she’s beautiful. She already knows that. As nice as she is, she always gently returns the love confessions she finds at her locker. She’d possibly let him hold her books, but he already knows that she’d split the bill for any dinner date.

Screw the letter, Junmyeon thinks. Maybe he's known it all along—Jiyoung doesn't need a fairy tale prince. She doesn't want one, if her subtle ranting in between econ readings is anythingto go by. Jiyoung deserves someone who will make her laugh and who she can poke fun at without offending anyone. Jiyoung deserves more than a ink on the artificial white of a sheet of printer paper. She deserves more than love confessions only and break-ups as soon as she wants to take someone home for dinner

He stands up. When he speaks, his voice doesn’t shake, even though his organs are trembling down to their individual cells.

“Jiyoung— I really like you. I know it’s the end of the school year. I know you may not feel the same way. But would you take a chance? Would you go out with me?”

She smiles, cherry red lips opening and brassy, bright, beautiful laughter filling up their small corner of the library.

“I thought you’d never ask.”