“Wait up!”

Minho shouts as you step it up, paying no attention to his usual request- it was always you that would wait for him by the school gate.

He was running and you could tell, hell, it might as well be dark and you could tell it was him that blinked. The two of you have been attached by the hip for heaven knows how long.

“Wait-” He grabs your backpack, hurtling you a few steps behind.

“Minho!” You yelp, turning around briskly to whack his shoulders in irritation. He shoots you that boyish smile of his, barely flinching at your meek assault.

“I’ve got a skirt on, .” He caught you off balance, and with two left feet you were surprised you didn’t land flat on your backside.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen anything.” Minho bites back a smirk, swinging an arm to pull you into a playful headlock.

“- that was one time!” You jab an elbow sharply to his side, wiping that smug look on his face to a scowl. The tip of your ears heat up, embarrassed and you were glad that he’s got you cooped up under his arm- anything but feed his ego. He’d walked in on you changing one time, dancing around to a mixtape he gave, the one you insisted on hating.

“Didn’t I say I’ll walk you home today?”

“Yeah? Pretty sure you were going off with those two just now.”

Minho quirks a brow as he looks down at you, still unable to figure out the true motives behind your constant teasing on his popularity with girls at school.

Who could blame him? He was the epitome of a highschool heart throb- president of the Art club, runs the school’s radio station and just everywhere, really. He didn’t look too bad as well, but that’s just you being modest. Let’s just say he’s succeeded in walking plenty of everyone into a wall- it was hard to keep your eyes off him.

If it weren’t for the fact that the two of you were childhood buddies, you and him wouldn’t be this close. There was no reason why he would act this way. And yet he insists in doing so.

“But they’re not you.” You could see him smile as he keeps his gaze straight. Being friends for years, it never bothered you, always so used to him saying things like these.

But for some itching reason, it was different now. You settled on the fact that maybe it’s because it’s your last year of highschool, that he’s going off to some fancy art school, miles away from home, from you.

“Hm. Whatever.” You snort out a laugh as you shrug him off, stopping just behind the pedestrian crossing you and him have crossed a million times before.

You kept your eyes on the red lights,

3…

It was something he’d only started to do,

2…

And just as the pedestrian light bleeps green,

1.

Minho slips his fingers between yours, guiding you across hand in hand as if it was nothing. Maybe it was, you didn’t know. He was always all fun and games, it was irritating how you couldn’t figure him out still- never knowing when he’s actually serious for once.

Just as you both were about to board the usual bus, you tug your hand away and he stays passive, feeling the confusion grow within you. What is he thinking exactly?

He waits for you to hop in first, placing a firm hand on your shoulder as you make your way into the packed vehicle. His hand felt somewhat heavy on you, which was funny since it has always been a habit of his- some form of physical contact with you in crowded places.

“Did the university get back to you?” You ask, hand clasped over a suspended handle above the roof of the bus.

Minho shifts to face you, “A few days ago, yeah.”

There was hesitation in his tone and he looks at you through a half lid glance, university has become a sensitive subject between you and him lately.

“When do you leave?” You look away and so does he.

“After summer, duh.” He scoffs in a jest and you could tell he was trying to lift the suddenly heavy atmosphere.

“You’re leaving, still.” His playfulness disappears at your sullen tone.

“You’ll be in college too, filled with senior guys-”

“You can stay with me,” You cut the start of his bitter rant as he stares at you, not sure if he heard you right, “, you don’t have to leave.”

Just then the bus halts midway and you catch the driver let out a disgruntled groan, which was the least of your worries. Not when the abrupt stop sent you staggering into Minho. Not when his chin stood a little too close to the crown of your head.

“I don’t have to stay,” When you think he couldn’t be anymore close, Minho leans in and you feel his breath, warm, on your forehead- you swear he’d stolen a peck, “I’m yours anyway.”

//