Minseok was frustrated.

He had to admit, one of the things that he had liked about Ahreum was that she was an easy woman.  She had kissed him on the first date, and by the third, she was asking if he wanted to come back to her dorm room to eat ramen.  

He liked that.  

He had liked that he never had to work very hard to get her into bed.  And she was adventurous, often initiating over half of their more…unusual experiences.  But the downside to having an easy girlfriend was that, well…

He wasn’t sure what she thought was going to happen when she invited him over, and he arrived to find two gentlemen already giving her their undivided attention, but he wasn’t interested in finding out, either.  

Part of what hurt so much was that she had wounded his pride.  After he left, she had never called, never texted, and within days had been seen around campus with a senior.  Also, when he went to clean his dorm room of her things, he saw that she had never actually left anything of hers.  

She really had only been keeping time with him.

And now here he was, stuck at home over summer break with his family, instead of hanging out on the upcoming sophomore’s Jeju trip, because he couldn’t handle seeing his ex charm her way through the student body population.  

And what was even more frustrating was having to try to play happy family while he was there.  His father had remarried when he was seventeen, so he barely had time to get to know his new stepmother or stepsister before he was off to college, and though you both were nice enough, sometimes, like right now, he wished that he had the house to himself, instead of having to listen to you laugh and shriek with your girlfriends on your--what was this--third sleepover since he had returned from school?  

What did you girls do in there all night?  What was so funny?  And most importantly, and most frustratingly--

When had you started to look like that?

When he had left for college, you had been a little butterball--cute, admittedly, but withdrawn and shy, with a tendency to scurry off like a little mouse any time he even looked in your general direction.  With your eyes and hair, you reminded him of that girl from Frozen, and so he had taken to calling you Elsa, and very much enjoying how red your face would flame before you would once more avail yourself of the most expedient exit route, and disappear.

He wasn’t stupid. He could tell that you had a crush on him, but other than the ego boost, he never paid too much attention to it, and then he was off to college.  

But now…but now…all of that baby fat had melted into all of the right places, and now those big blue eyes--while still wide and innocent--gave him…thoughts.  And it wasn’t just your eyes.  He cursed the hot Hongcheon summer as well as the manufacturers of the tiny skirts that you and your friends seemed to prefer.  On them, they just looked like skirts, but on you…

He groaned.

Despite all of the interesting ways that your body had grown in his absence, you still flopped around like he remembered, and it took everything in him not to stare at the flashes of white cotton that appeared whenever you bent down to pick up something, or lolled on the couch, or sat sprawled over one of the living room easy chairs.  And white cotton…

Why’d it have to be white cotton?  You must really want him dead.  

He couldn’t think of anything that he had ever done to deserve this kind of torture, but he wanted to tear out his hair and beg you to wear a pair of pants, or shorts, or something.  One time, he had even come in to find you sprawled on your stomach on the couch, chattering away on the phone, the back of your tiny skirt flipped halfway up, exposing that detestable, delectable white cotton, your legs in their kneesocks idly kicking back and forth.  Reaching out, he quickly flipped your skirt back down as he passed the couch on his way to the kitchen.

You hadn’t even reacted.  

Quiet suddenly rang in his ears, and he looked at the clock.  1 AM.  You guys must have finally fallen asleep.  Finally.  Feeling thirsty, he slowly opened the door to his room and peered out.  Silence.  Like a burglar in his own home, he snuck out to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.  Standing by the sink, he started to drink, when another memory of you, bent over to grab a fallen pencil, the white of your stark against what looked like the softest skin, flashed through his mind, and his sip turned into great gulps of frustration.  

“Don’t worry, oppa, there’s more.”

Trying desperately not to cough, he quickly turned to find you standing by the fridge, smiling sweetly at him as he drank as if it were the last glass of water in the house.  “What are you doing up?” he rasped, swiping a thumb over his bottom lip to catch an errant droplet.  “I thought that you all had finally gone to sleep.”

“Well, you know,” you said idly, crossing your arms under s that he refused to look at as he leaned against the fridge.  “I got thirsty.”  

Your eyes dropped to his glass, and then you were walking forward, slowly taking the glass from his suddenly nerveless fingers and bringing it to your own mouth, finishing the water with your eyes locked on his before handing it back.

“Tastes good,” you murmured before blinding him with a brilliant smile.  

Coming back to life, he set down his glass on the sink.  “Now you’ve had your water.  Go back to bed.”

“But I’m not sleepy,” you pouted.  

“You’re hosting a sleepover.  Why don’t you wake them up and keep talking?”

“Because I’m bored,” you said, scratching your leg.

That, of course, made him look down at the long expanse of thigh exposed by your hooded summer onesie.  Thankfully it was loose, but the shorts ended just below your unfairly generous bottom, and he just wanted to know what he had done in a past life to deserve this kind of torture.  Sighing, he turned to rinse his glass, and put it in the dish rack before turning back to you, and ruffling your hair.  “Well, then, watch something on TV.”  Walking past, he stopped at the door as you reached out to clasp his arm to your body.

“There’s nothing on.  I’m bored, oppa.”

Well.  

Now, Minseok had a problem.  

He was a normal guy, younger girls called him oppa all the time, but, there was something…  

There was something…  

There was something about the way that you said it, all needy and cute.  Especially with his elbow currently nestled in curiously soft places.

He couldn’t have moved another step if he tried.

Swallowing hard, he thought furiously.  You guys could just…hang out in the living room.  Maybe play some Go-Stop.  Watch youtube videos.  Find an old drama.  Something.  “Sure,’ he agreed, feeling his ears flame.  “Oppa will help, if you want.  Let’s go find something to watch.”

“Okay,” you agreed happily.  

You didn’t let go of his arm as you walked down the hall, and as you passed his room, he felt a tug.  Looking back, he groaned inwardly at the pout you were currently sporting.  

“Where are we going?” you whispered.

“To the living room,” he whispered back, terrified of waking your parents.  “To watch TV.”

“I don’t want to watch TV in the living room.  I want to go to your room.”

You were killing him.  You were literally trying to kill him.  Sure, he hadn’t been the most attentive stepbrother in the world, but he didn’t deserve this.  He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong with the living room when you shivered, bringing up your palms to chafe your arms.  

“I’m cold,” you pouted, looking up at him with those big, innocent blue eyes.  

“Oh, r-really” he stuttered.  “Uh, I have a blanket in my room that we can take..”  Opening his door, he meant to duck in, grab the blanket, and continue toward the living room, but you slipped by him to plop yourself on his bed