"Question one: Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?" he began.

She needlessly stirred her tea, thinking for a while.

"You go first," she leaned back.

He placed his elbows on the table with a knowing smile, "Nabokov."

She scrunched her forehead, "They don't have to be alive?"

"It doesn't say anything about the person being dead or alive," he answered. "Why Nabokov, though? He gives me the creeps," she commented, truly intrigued by his answer but also shuddering at Lolita, a book she didn't enjoy reading but was forced to read because Namjoon wanted someone to read it with. They took turns reading the chapter to one another as they sat in that very coffee shop.

"I know you hated it but Lolita is a masterpiece. I want to ask him how living with that cognitive dissonance was like, knowing she was off-limits but also being in love with her so fiercely at the same time," he explained.

She scoffed, "I doubt he experienced any dilemma in that relationship."

"I think he did. He said that he loved her but he knew she couldn't be his Lolita forever."

"The way he objectifies her... I mean, he called her the fire in his loins. I'm not sure how that could ever be perceived as sweet or romantic," she argued.

He snapped his finger with a smile, "That's why. That's why I want to have dinner with him. I want to pick his brain."

She shook her head. Kim Namjoon is certainly one of a kind. She remembered how shocked she was that he wanted to major in Literature. Who would've expected that this fireball of energy would choose to study something so... calm?

"What about you? Who do you want to have dinner with?" he asked before taking a sip of his earl grey. She looked up wistfully for a while before finally answering, "Amy Winehouse."

"I knew it!" Namjoon exclaimed happily.

She laughed.

"Your obsession with her is getting scary, Yerin-ah," he said after a moment, "Pick a rolemodel who's not dead of drug overdose, won't you?"

She only laughed at his concern, but he actually does worry at the extent of her introvertedness. She rarely opens up to others - sometimes it takes much prodding for her to talk to him. But he knew that she just wasn't comfortable in talking about her emotions. "Emotions confuse me," she admitted once, "It's suffocating." He could relate. As someone who expresses his emotions freely, he understood how overwhelming it could be to feel so many things at once. 'Maybe that's why she prefers being alone,' he concluded one evening when they studied together in companionable silence at DiALOGUÉ. She was reading her Art History textbook while he was trying (and failing miserably) to finish his analysis on Hawthorne's The Scarlett Letter. She didn't say much when she arrived and by the grip of her pen, he could tell that she didn't have a good day so he didn't press on - letting the evening go without many words. But even so, he still worries. He worries that she's keeping too much inside and he hopes that one day, she'll be completely open.