Slouching further in my chair, I crossed my arms over my chest as the music thudded and people jerked around awkwardly (I’m sure they would say it was rhythmically) making random motions that supposedly constituted for dancing. I heaved an irritated sigh…I. Hate. Dances.

No, I’m sorry, I don’t hate them…

I loathe them.

And I’m pretty sure they loathe me right back…if that’s possible.

And yet somehow (I’m still trying to figure out the details on the conspiracy myself – when I find out, you’ll be the second to know) my friends (currently not on my “best friends” list right now for this specific reason) had managed to dress me up in a tight, pink halter top dress, two inch heels, make up (which supposedly brought out my “emerald” eyes…I wasn’t so sure) and – now I admired them for this – tame my unruly chestnut ringlets into pin straight hair, then finally…after one hell of a fight…get me here. But after that, their success ended. After they got me in here, I went straight for the chairs, lined up on the side, and no amount of protests or bribes could convince me to get up and dance. As usual.

See, here’s the thing about dances. I used to like them…once. But you’ve got to understand, dances become kind of painful when you see the object of your affection grinding (a.k.a with clothes) and engaging in other acts of PDA (examples include but are not limited to groping, tonsil hockey, shameless flirting, etc.) right in front of you. Definitely not a pleasurable memory.

Looking up, I groaned. Think of the devil…look who had spotted me.

He smiled.

I glared. Maybe he wouldn’t come this way.

Yeah…riiiight.

Did I mention that all of this is a lot harder when said object of affection is your best friend?

“Hey, Y/N.”

Well, it is. Its hard not to go weak at the knees and ignore your rapidly beating heart and butterfly stomach when he smiles his trademark at you, the one where he shows his perfect pearly white teeth in an amazingly attractive manner. Like…he was doing right now. Damn him.

“Yuta.” Tight. Simple. Pissed….at the dance, not him. But he knew that, which is why he smirked, seeming to find pleasure in my pain. Again, I repeat…damn him.

“You look lonely.”

You look gorgeous, I thought, looking up into his brown (I liked to call them caramel) eyes. He shook some of his hair out of them, and tilted his head, his lips curling into a curious smile. I could feel a blush creeping onto my cheeks, and was glad it was dark. I averted my eyes and shrugged.

“Wanna dance?”

My eyes snapped up to him, then at the people around me. Was he talking to me?

“No.” How’d I manage to say that? Oh…right, my mouth is on auto-pilot. Stupid mouth.

“Aww…c'mon, Y/N. Why not?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Why?”

“I can’t dance.” That was no lie. No coordination in these gawky limbs.

“But you owe me one,” Yuta pleaded, taking a seat beside me.

“A dance?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. I remember no such promise.

“No, a favor. Remember, today in Japanese?” As if he thought I wouldn’t, he reached out and grabbed a guy walking past by the arm. “Hansol, doesn’t Y/N owe me one? You heard her say that, right?”

I looked up at Hansol, shaking my head no. A large grin spread across his face. “Man, you saved her .”

“So, yes?”

“Yeah, man.”

Yuta looked back at me as Hansol walked away. I would have to kill him (Hansol, not Yuta) later. “See?”

“I remember,” I groaned. Japanese…got to love Japanese. You see…no, I don’t even want to go back there. I guess I did owe him one. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“My favor is a dance.”

“With me?”

“With you.”

I was afraid I was going to faint right there.

“One dance,” Yuta said, taking my petite hand in his larger, callused ones. He pulled his famous puppy dog face, eyes wide, bottom lip quivering. “Please, Y/N?”

My heartstrings tugged. How could I resist? “Fine.”

He grinned in triumph and I couldn’t help but grin back. What can I say…it was contagious.

As luck would have it (for him, not me) the last song h