You wake up with the worst headache in the world.

For the longest time, you’d been a firm believer that hangovers don’t exist because you never had one no matter how much you’d drank the previous night. You supposedly know all the tips and tricks of not getting wasted: eat a lot before going out to drink, drink tons of water in between shots, and then drink more water before going to bed. But here you are, your head throbbing like someone used it as a punching bag all night long, squirming as you try to sit up on the bed. Your eyes are having trouble adjusting to the sunlight shining through the white curtains draped in front of the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows.

That’s weird, you tell yourself, because you clearly remember not having white curtains in your bedroom… or floor-to-ceiling windows.

In a wave of panic, your eyes flutter open. You look around the room, and it doesn’t take long for you to confirm that you’re not at your place. The bedroom reminds you of a hotel room. Sleek furniture, carpeted floor, and all-white everything: curtains, pillows, bedsheets. There’s no way a bedroom can be this nice and neat, but then again, you’re used to the mess of your room. You turn to your right and notice a half-empty bottle of purple Gatorade sitting on the nightstand, which you’re certain is important, but you can’t seem to remember why.

You hop out of bed and pad cautiously toward the bedroom door. The savory scent of bacon, sweet waffles, and fried eggs wafts through the air outside the room. Breakfast. Right on cue, your stomach rumbles. You realize only now just how hungry you are.

You follow the smell of food and it leads you out of the short corridor and into what is obviously the living room because of the humongous flatscreen TV mounted on the wall and the large gray sectional sofa directly in front of it. A few feet away from the couch is a white marble kitchen island with four stools, and behind that is the person responsible for the delicious aroma filling the place.

“You’re up,” Junmyeon says nonchalantly as if cooking breakfast for you is the most normal thing in the world.

“Is this your place?” you ask. Junmyeon nods. “What happened last night…?”

You knit your brows together as you try your best to remember how the hell you got here. You remember… going to the convenience store across The Watering Hole… Then someone offering you a bottle of something… The Gatorade on the bedside table. Oh, you realize. Junmyeon gave me that drink. You recall getting in his car, but after that… nothing. Complete darkness.

Wasn’t he supposed to drive you home? What are you doing here, then?

“Well,” Junmyeon begins, and you can immediately tell from the tone of his voice that he had a pretty rough night, “I couldn’t sleep because I was craving something sweet last night, so I drove to the nearest store to buy some ice cream. Then I found you, sitting on the asphalt outside the store like some vagrant. It was funny, except that you started crying when you saw me so I had to hold back my laughter. You looked pretty pathetic.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks partly because of embarrassment that he had to see you weeping like that, but mostly because you’re annoyed that he basically called you a hobo. You had expected him to say something sweet or at least something remotely decent, not to use words like vagrant and pathetic to describe how you were last night when he found you.

“Gee, thanks.”

Junmyeon cracks a smile while he transfers the freshly-fried bacon onto a plate with paper towels to drain out the oil from the strips. “I drove you to your place but you were asleep when we got there. I didn’t want to wake you and I didn’t know how to contact any of your friends, so I brought you here instead.”

“You live in a hotel?” you ask.

You can’t help but look around again, because Junmyeon’s place does look like somewhere you’d check-in for a staycation. You would know — you’ve stayed in hotels as nice as this place because your parents have a knack for luxury vacations. You hate most of them, but you’d be lying if you say that you never liked at least a bit of it.

“It’s not a hotel,” Junmyeon corrects. “It’s a serviced apartment.”

“I didn’t know you were loaded.”

“I’m not rich. I just live… comfortably.”

“That’s exactly what rich people say.”

Junmyeon rolls his eyes at you and you grin, knowing you win this time around. You sit on one of the stools in front of the kitchen island as if you’d done it a million times before, making yourself right at home as you watch Junmyeon finish cooking.

A strange, warm feeling gushes from your heart and spreads throughout your body while you observe Junmyeon doing something as simple as making breakfast. You aren’t sure if this is a side effect of being hungover or if you’ve completely lost your mind.

“By the way,” Junmyeon says, snapping you out of your thoughts, “you didn’t have anything with you when I found you. No phone, no wallet, no nothing. Did something happen, or…”

“.” It’s all coming back to you now, why you had to go to the convenience store in the first place. “I had my stuff stolen last night. Can I borrow your phone?”

Junmyeon’s face twists in confusion, and you can tell from his expression that he has a million questions on his mind right now. But he simply pulls out his phone and hands it to you without asking anything.

Your fingers tremble as you tap on the screen, dialing the only number you’ve memorized aside from your own. You don’t even know your parents’ number by heart, but that’s only because you don’t need to. This phone number is more or less a direct line to them, anyway.

You bring the phone to your ear and wait, which doesn’t take long. The call is picked up on the third ring, like always.

“Professor Byun In-chul’s office,” a familiar monotonous voice echoes from the other end of the line.

“Jeongyeon,” you say, “it’s me.”

You hear your dad’s secretary sigh through the speaker. “What is it now?” she asks. She sounds annoyed and tired, and you can’t blame her, really. You only ever call her when something terrible happens.

You’d managed to hide your little car accident from her and, consequently, your parents, but that’s only because Junmyeon had been more than willing to pay for damages. If he hadn’t been cooperative, you would’ve needed to ask Jeongyeon to take care of the insurance stuff which, of course, you know nothing about.

“Can you please freeze all my cards? My phone, too. I’d also ask you not to tell dad, but I know there’s no way you’ll do that.”

“Did you get mugged? What happened?”

“No, no. I’m fine,” you promise her. “I just… lost them. Last night, while I was out drinking with a few friends.” You aren’t lying, but still, you can’t help but feel bad for not telling the whole truth.

Jeongyeon has been your dad’s secretary for as long as you can remember. She must be in her mid-forties now, but she’s been working for your dad even before you or your brother were born, which is already a good chunk of her life.

Although it’s technically not in her job description, anyone in the family can ask her for help. You sure hope your dad’s compensating her well, because god knows how much trouble you and your brother have caused over the years.

“I just ordered you a new phone. It’ll be delivered to your apartment by tomorrow,” Jeongyeon says. The sound of keys clacking resounds from the line, and you know that she’s working her secretary magic on her desktop right now. “I got in touch with your banks, they’ve frozen all your accounts. You’ll have to go to them in person to get your new cards.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

“I know,” Jeongyeon answers tonelessly. “Expect your father to call you soon.”

You swallow nervously. That, you aren’t looking forward to. “Alright.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I’m good,” you reply. “Thanks again.”

The line clicks and the call ends. You hand Junmyeon’s phone back to him, and even though the worst of your problems have been taken care of, you don’t feel any better because you know you’ll be hearing from your dad soon.

You’ll probably hear another lengthy lecture from him about you being irresponsible, about why you can’t be more like your brother, about how you always give Jeongyeon a hard time cleaning up after you. You’d rather get run over by a bus than listen to that, but you figure that perhaps you deserve it this time around.

“You seem a bit young to already have a secretary,” Junmyeon remarks as he slips his phone back into his pocket. He then hands you a hearty plate of crispy bacon, fluffy waffles, and sunny-side-up eggs.

“Jeongyeon’s not my secretary,” you explain. “She’s my dad’s.” You dig into the breakfast plate Junmyeon has prepared for you, almost inhaling the food. Breakfast after a night of drinking always tastes immaculate.

“I’m guessing your father’s someone important…?”

“Not really,” you lie with your mouth full.

Junmyeon doesn’t seem like the -up type, but still, you can’t help but be too careful. If he finds out who your dad is and what he does for the university…

“You can take a shower after eating,” Junmyeon says, and you’re thankful that he’s the one to change the subject. “I can lend you some clothes for the time being. I couldn’t change your clothes last night because that would be, um, inappropriate.” He quickly averts his gaze, and you notice that he’s blushing. It’s faint, but it’s obvious, especially against his fair skin.

It’s the first time you realize that you’re still wearing your clothes from yesterday, and you still very much reek of The Watering Hole — like cigarettes, beer, and sweat.

You’re blushing now, too, as it dawns on you that Junmyeon had carried you all the way here while you stank like a frat house.

“Last night…”

“Oh, I slept on the couch,” Junmyeon says right away, defensively waving his hands. “Don’t worry.”

Way to make it even more awkward, you tell yourself. “No, it’s not that… I just wanted to say thank you,” you say in a small voice. “You didn’t need to do all that.”

Junmyeon manages a chuckle. “Well, I couldn’t exactly leave you on the sidewalk, either. Think of this as debt. I already have an idea how you can pay me back.”

“How?”

“By doing well on your piece for the folio’s upcoming zine. Write something worthy of an editor-in-chief.”

It sounds so much like a typical thing a professor would say that you can’t help but laugh. “That doesn’t sound like much of a payment.”

Junmyeon raises an eyebrow at you, his gaze clearly teasing. “You haven’t started on it, have you?” he challenges.

“Actually, it’s coming along just fine,” you lie. You hate how he always seems to see right through you, how he always manages to tell right away when you’re bluffing.

“Sure,” Junmyeon shrugs. “If you say so.” He leaves you at the kitchen island to finish your plate, chuckling as he makes his way toward the living room to watch the morning news.

Now that he isn’t there to see, you allow yourself to smile while you eat the breakfast he’d made just for you, the waffles tasting a lot sweeter than the countless others you’ve had before.

* * *

To no one’s surprise, Kyungsoo had a lot to say about your little missing-in-action act after that fateful Thursday night when he left you at The Watering Hole to take Jihyun home.

See, Kyungsoo’s the type of friend to take those “text me when you get home” reminders seriously. When he tells you to text him when you get home and you don’t, expect to hear an earful from him when you see each other again. That’s Kyungsoo’s brand of friendship: tough love.

Naturally, you had to explain to your friends what happened and why they couldn’t contact you the following day so that Kyungsoo could finally stop yapping. You hadn’t told them about ending up in Junmyeon’s apartment even though it’s an important detail, replacing it with a made-up story of how the convenience store cashier let you borrow his phone which allowed you to contact your dad’s secretary for help.

Of course, you know that your friends aren’t judgemental people, but still, you have a feeling that you shouldn’t let them know about how close you and Junmyeon are getting — well, at least not yet.

Unfortunately for you, Kyungsoo’s not someone who’s easily convinced. He’d narrowed his eyes at you while you were telling them your fabricated account of what happened that night, but he’d kept his mouth shut, like he’d resigned to let you off the hook this time around.

“Chanyeol was worried about you too, you know,” Kyungsoo had said. “I knew the chances of you ending up with him that night were slim to none, but I figured it was worth a try to ask him if you were with him. He freaked when he found out we couldn’t contact you.”

Now, you’d be lying if you say that you hadn’t felt something when you heard Kyungsoo say that. It’s not as immense as it had been before, but it’s definitely still there — the small part of your heart that still loves Chanyeol.

That part has become merely a fraction of what it had been a couple of months ago, but that’s only because there’s something — someone, rather, encroaching on your heart recently. It’s something you just can’t admit to yourself yet. Or perhaps you don’t want to admit it at all, because you know that it isn’t right, that it’s something that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

How does that old saying go? The heart wants what it wants.

Then… maybe it’s okay to feel this way, if you just keep it to yourself.

The thing is, however, you’re a writer. It’s second nature for you to spill your feelings into pages that could go on and on and on, which means you never keep things to yourself. There may be some things you don’t tell other people, or things you may never say out loud, but small pieces of you — of your true feelings — are scattered all across the pieces you’ve written.

The poem you’ve written for the folio’s latest zine is no different.

You haven’t written poetry in a while and you tend to avoid it as much as possible because it isn’t your best suit. In poetry, you have to say so much with so few words, and that’s a nightmare for someone like you who’s used to having the liberty of using as many words as you want that comes with writing in prose.

But what you like about poetry is the crypticness of it — there are layers and layers of meaning to it, and anyone can interpret it differently, which means no one but you can know what it’s really about.

Crypticness is what you need right now, especially since the budding feelings in your heart are too dangerous to be put out in the open.

“Nervous?” a voice beside you asks out of the blue, startling you.

You look to your right and see Junmyeon with an easy smile on his lips, his hands tucked in his pockets. He’s dressed smart-casually, wearing a black blazer over a plain white shirt, slightly tattered jeans, and leather shoes. Hanging around his neck is a long chain necklace with a thick ring dangling from it. You look away, trying your best not to blush as you wonder to yourself how he can look so good in such an unassuming ensemble.

“A little,” you admit. “It’s been a while since I did one of these.”

Your eyes wander around the café. A small stage has been placed at the front for the showcase. You recognize a few faces from the crowd waiting for the event to start: other literature majors from your school, a couple professors who you guess have been invited by Junmyeon, some serious-looking people who you know to be award-winning writers (probably also invited by Junmyeon).

Kyungsoo is seated somewhere at the back because you’ve explicitly asked him not to sit so close to the stage in fear that you might laugh when you see him while reading your poem out loud. You had invited Chanyeol too, purely out of force of habit, because he always came to your previous zine launches. But he’s nowhere to be seen tonight.

“Don’t be nervous. Everyone will love your poem,” Junmyeon says.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You haven’t even read it yet,” you counter. It’s true — he hasn’t read any of the pieces in the latest zine, because he said he ‘wanted to be surprised’ on the night of the launch.

Junmyeon smiles playfully. “Okay, I’m just saying that to make you feel better, but you’re free to prove me right.”

From the opposite side of the café, Jihyun waves in your direction and gestures to her wristwatch. She’s responsible for making sure the program goes on schedule tonight by virtue of being the folio’s associate editor.

“That’s your cue,” you tell Junmyeon.

“I guess it is.” He glances at his wristwatch and then back at you. “Good luck out there. I’m really looking forward to hearing your poem,” he says with one last smile, and then he’s gone, making his way to the stage to officially open the launch.

The murmurs in the crowd die down when Junmyeon steps onstage.

“Welcome to the Malva Literary Folio’s launch of the thirty-fifth volume of our zine and our latest publication, Crossroads,” he says into the mic, the audience clapping right after. He then goes on to introduce himself, the folio, and the pieces that are going to be read out loud tonight. You can’t help but smile when he mentions how proud he is of the folio’s staffers, especially the editorial board, even if he hasn’t been the faculty adviser that long. “The first piece to be read tonight is a poem — a villanelle titled Purple Rain by none other than Malva’s editor-in-chief. Please give her a warm round of applause.”

The crowd claps once more. Junmyeon looks in your direction and gives you an encouraging smile. You make your way onstage, trying to ignore the way your stomach is churning. Junmyeon comes down from the platform and goes to sit on the front row. The stage is all yours, and you’re dizzy with nervousness.

You hesitate even after the claps have died down. The trembling of your fingers is obvious, you’re sure of it, but then you meet Junmyeon’s eyes. Instantly, you begin to calm down. He nods at you reassuringly, his lips curled in a kind smile. You open the zine you’re holding, flip over to the page of your poem, and begin to read.

“In my heart, there is a whirlwind of hues.
Red, blue, and purple — swirling, churning, coming to a simmer,
but no other color has fascinated me quite like you.

I know red through and through:
the burn of lust, the ache of anger, the heat of summer.
My heart is no stranger to the whirlwind of its hue.

The shade of extremes, red is never subdued;
the tint of fire, a flame that never grows dimmer.
Red is the first color I saw in you.

Blue is a tone easy to confuse.
Deep seas, calm skies, heavy spirits; its meaning always differs.
My heart is often puzzled by this whirlwind of a hue.

It reminds me of rain that falls and leaves dew,
of downpour that seems harsh but waters the grass greener.
Blue is a color that explains you.

Pouring red into blue creates something new —
the color of twilight and wine, a color for dreamers
such as my heart which dreams of a whirlwind of hues:

red and blue in an endless pursuit
to make a shade much richer, sweeter, deeper.
Purple is the color I want to taste from you.

You are red, you are blue (since the day we met at that avenue).
You are purple, you are rain (like a dream born out of fever).
In my heart, there is a whirlwind of hues,
but it is a storm I will brave to paint with a color like you.”

The crowd falls into a stunned silence. Then, after a few more heartbeats, they erupt in applause. You smile as you let out a sigh of relief; it feels as if the weight of the world had just been taken off your shoulders.

But you freeze when you meet Junmyeon’s eyes again. He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look unimpressed, either — he’s simply staring at you. But his eyes… The way his gaze is piercing through you…

That’s when you realize that he has figured it out, that he is the color you had just rhapsodized about. Junmyeon knows the poem is about him.

* * *

Out of all the traditions of the folio, the midterm team building is your favorite.

For starters, it’s not a team building at all. It’s more of an outing with the entire folio during the midterm break of the third trimester, where you spend an entire weekend swimming and drinking and basically dicking around.

Some of your funniest college memories had come from here, like the time Jihyun was so wasted that she fell asleep on a sunlounger and woke up the next day with a god-awful sunburn. You and Kyungsoo bring up pictures from that time every year on Jihyun’s birthday so that no one forgets.

Like always, the folio had rented a private villa for two days and two nights. Since you’re editor-in-chief, it was your responsibility to plan the whole thing, but finding a decent place for the outing had been a walk in the park thanks to Jeongyeon and not to mention the fact that your dad had contact with a bunch of hoteliers.

But despite the whole weekend being planned to perfection, you just can’t get yourself to look forward to it because Junmyeon has been avoiding you since the night of the zine launch, the night you read your poem.

For the past week, he had only talked to you when absolutely necessary — during class and during folio meetings, which is not much at all, especially considering the fact that you only have one three-hour class with him on Mondays and that folio meetings happen twice a week, but barely last an hour. Junmyeon didn’t even drop by Siwon’s shop last weekend to keep you company like he normally does, and when you had asked Siwon why, he simply shook his head and shrugged.

You hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from Junmyeon, but perhaps it was stupid of you to assume that he wouldn’t read between the lines and piece together the clues that point to the meaning behind your poem.

The past week has been hell. You hate every minute of walking on eggshells with Junmyeon, of trying to guess what’s going through his mind, of not knowing the reason why he’s keeping away from you.

But you know why he’s avoiding you, the rancid voice of your subconscious tells you. He’s avoiding you because he doesn’t feel the same way, because to him, you looked stupid confessing your feelings like that.

“You okay?” Jihyun asks, reeling you back into reality.

You offer her a half-hearted smile as you nod. “Head count?”

“We already know that some of the freshmen aren’t coming, and Jaemin texted me last night saying he’s coming down with the flu, so that makes…” she trails off for a few seconds, making mental calculations in her mind. “That makes thirteen of us, plus Mr. Kim. He told me he was on his way about thirty minutes ago. I wonder if he’s near…”

The mention of Junmyeon’s name makes your heart drop to your feet, and you hope that Jihyun hadn’t noticed it. “The staffers are on the bus?”

“Yeah,” Jihyun replies. “We’re just waiting for Mr. Kim. Wait a second…”

“What?”

“Did the two of you fight?”

You purse your lips, unsure of what to say. It’s truly impossible to hide things from Jihyun; she can sense the smallest of changes in the way people behave, as if she has a built-in radar.

“It’s just a small misunderstanding,” you finally say after a few seconds.

Jihyun hums, clearly unconvinced. You’ve seen this look before; it’s the same look Kyungsoo had given you when you lied about what happened that night at The Watering Hole. That’s when you realize that they’ve been probably talking to each other about you. You wonder if they already know the things you haven’t been telling them.

But Jihyun doesn’t say anything more. “Alright,” she concedes. Right on cue, a familiar white sedan rolls into the parking lot — the car that started everything the moment it crashed into yours. “Speak of the devil.”

“I’ll be on the bus,” you say, quickly looking away from Junmyeon’s car before you stare for too long. “Brief him on the head count and other details.”

Jihyun nods, and you walk away before Junmyeon finishes parking.

* * *

The villa you had rented is about three to four hours away from the city, but the long drive hadn’t dampened everyone’s excitement.

Except you, of course, because you aren’t excited to begin with.

You smile and laugh whenever the situation calls for it, but deep down, your chest only grows heavier as the day ticks away.

Everyone had either jumped into the pool or played around the villa as soon as you arrived, so it hadn’t been difficult for you to hide your real mood since everyone’s distracted anyway.

You catch a glimpse of Junmyeon here and there, but those are just that — glimpses. He doesn’t stop to talk or nod or even smile, and by the time dinner is ready, you had to make up some dumb excuse about having a bad stomach because you feel like you’ll burst into tears if you have to be in the same room with Junmyeon but he won’t even spare you a glance.

Jihyun would come to your room to check on you once in a while, but you would just pretend to be asleep every time she walks in. In the silence of your room, you can perfectly hear everyone having fun outside: the laughter, the loud splash whenever someone dives into the pool, the clinking of glasses and bottles.

You should be out there, celebrating with your peers for successfully publishing another volume of the folio’s zine, but here you are, curled up in bed, trying to hold back your tears.

The next thing you know, it’s 3 a.m. and you’ve let a day that should’ve been one of the best of your life slip through your fingers like sand.

With the entire villa dead quiet because everyone’s either wasted, asleep, or both, you slip out of bed and tiptoe to the kitchen to force yourself to eat something before opening a bottle of ice-cold Heineken.

You hadn’t any lights as to not attract any attention to yourself and to not disturb anyone who might be asleep somewhere on the ground floor, so the only source of light illuminating the room is from the pool area which is directly in front of the kitchen and is only separated by a wide floor-to-ceiling glass door that makes it seem like you’re watching the view through a screen.

Your heart leaps to your chest when you finally notice the silhouette of someone sitting by the pool with a shadow of a beer bottle beside them, their legs dipped halfway into the water. Then you realize who it is, and your feet pad toward him like they had a mind of their own.

He turns to look when he hears the glass door slide open. He’s quiet for a few moments, like he’s inwardly debating whether he should talk to you or not. “Are you feeling better?” he finally asks. It’s been so long since he directly spoke to you, so his voice sounds like it’s from a dream. He finally notices the bottle of beer in your hand, and he manages a small chuckle. “Let me guess,” he says, “you weren’t feeling sick at all.”

You nod. Wordlessly, you sit next to him by the pool, also plunging your feet into the water. Even when he’s been avoiding you, he still seems to know exactly what you’re thinking.

It’s unfair, really, how he can read you like a book but you can’t seem to do the same at all.

“Cheers?” Junmyeon asks, holding out his beer bottle for you to toast. Reluctantly, you do. After you both take a swig, he speaks again. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah,” you answer. Your voice comes out hoarse, so you clear your throat. “I have a lot on my mind right now.”

A short laugh escapes from Junmyeon’s lips, but it sounds hollow. “Yeah, me too.”

Your heart breaks anew. “Listen, Junmyeon. About the poem… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” But the words get stuck in your throat.

Junmyeon doesn’t say anything for a while. The night is silent except for the gentle swish of the pool, the gulps of beer, and the crickets beyond the villa’s walls. You look at Junmyeon — the first clear look you’ve gotten of him all day — and he looks unreal and angelic with the soft blue of the water reflecting on his face.

“I loved your poem, by the way,” he finally breaks the silence. “You proved me right. Everyone loved it. You’ve also paid me back for that night, so no need to worry about that.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable,” you say. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. We can forget it ever happened. We can pretend I never wrote it.”

Junmyeon looks you straight in the eye which startles you at first, because he hasn’t looked at you for longer than a minute for the past week. His pupils are shaking, or maybe that’s just a reflection of the small waves in the water.

“But that’s the thing,” he says sotfly, “I don’t want to forget.”

You fight the urge to pinch yourself, to wake yourself up just in case you’re dreaming.

He doesn’t want to forget?

“What are you…”

Junmyeon cuts you off. “I’m sorry for avoiding you all week. It’s just that… I needed some time away from you, so that I could understand a couple of things better. The only way I had to be sure about it was to distance myself for a little while, so I’m sorry if I surprised you with the cold shoulder.”

Junmyeon finally looks away and redirects his gaze to the dark sky, which is dotted with a myriad of stars now that you’re far away from the pollution of the city.

“Are you sure now?” you manage to ask after a few seconds of silence. “I mean, about the stuff you wanted to understand better.”

“Yes.”

“Then what is it?”

You can hear your heartbeat drumming in your ears. The beer in your hand is now turning warm, droplets of sweat condensing on the bottle’s surface. But you don’t feel like drinking anymore. Your head is spinning with just the words dripping out of Junmyeon’s mouth.

He looks at you again. This time, his stare is stern. “I’m sure about how I feel about you,” he says, “and I’m sure that I… I like you.”

For a moment, your world becomes completely still. You hear and feel nothing, not even your own heartbeat. It’s as if time has frozen. You try to break free from the spell, but you’re too stunned to move, too dazed to say anything.

But then Junmyeon reaches out and brushes your lower lip with his thumb, and you can feel yourself breathing again.

The pad of his finger is cool against your lip, probably because of the beer he’d been holding. His eyes flicker back and forth between your eyes and your mouth.

“You have no idea…” he trails off.

He leans forward.

His face is merely inches away from yours, his breath fanning against your skin. Every detail of him is crystal clear up close: his thick eyebrows, the small scar on top of the bridge of his nose, the tiny mole just above his lips.

Your eyes wander around frantically to capture everything, because you don’t know when you’ll get the chance to be this close to him again.

He leans closer and closer and closer…

But just when his lips are barely grazing yours, he pulls away.

“This is wrong,” he whispers. He looks at you one last time with deep, sad eyes and then stands up, leaving you all alone by the pool.