“And here we have the Chapel, which is the oldest extant building on campus, since the Great Hall had to be rebuilt after the fire of 1861.  Any questions?”  You looked around expectantly.  

“I have a question.”  A tall boy with blond hair and a beard--what were they putting in the food--raised his hand.

“Yes?”  

“What’s your number?”  His classmates laughed, some patting him on the back, and some looking expectantly at you.

Trying to hide a smile, you clasped your hands demurely, and looked down.  “I’m sorry boys, but you have to be at least 18 to ride any of the rides in this particular park.”

“I’ll be 18 in spring,” a dark haired young man with green eyes called from the back of the crowd.

Chuckling, you turned to their chaperone, a silver fox in his forties who had caught your eye as soon as you had seen him.  “Do you have any questions about the tour, sir?”

“Not about the tour, no,” he answered, eyes twinkling.  

Smiling inwardly, you looked away.  They made it so easy.

“Are you single?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Can I text you?”

Keeping a pleasant smile on your face, inside, you soon grew bored with the puppy-like attention of the tour group.  Flipping your hair, you sighed dramatically, making sure that your inhale made your bosom swell enough to catch their attention.  “I thought that boarding school boys were supposed to be known for their manners,” you said, putting a hand on your hip before batting your eyelashes at the nearest one, who promptly turned red, and looked away.  

“You said that you’re a sophomore, right?” another one called.  “Come on--you’re only two years older than us.”

You laughed at his audacity.  “Why would I date someone who doesn’t even go here?”

“I go here,” a boy in the middle of the crowd said, waving his hand.  

“So do I,” echoed another.

Narrowing your eyes, you glared at them in mock irritation.  “If you already go here, then why did you infiltrate my tour?”

“A tour given by Carmelle Laveau,” the first one asked rhetorically.  “Of course I’m coming!”

“Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you,” you asked tartly--much to the delight of the high school boys.  

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he quipped.

“Are you so ready to have your heart broken, then,” you tossed back.

“For you?  Worth it!”

“Come on, Carmelle,” another one coaxed.  “It has been a few weeks since you’ve given your time to anyone.  Aren’t you lonely?”

“Come on, baby, just choose someone!  Preferably me!”  

“The tour’s over, gentleman,” you laughed, dismissively waving your hands.  “Disperse!”

A quiet spectator caught your eye, and you turned to see a handsome boy with a prince-like face on a rugby player's body, silently watching the entire scene.  Dr. Zuniga--the Dean of the Engineering Department--stood next to him, saying something to which the young man was obviously only half listening.  Though he watched you, it was with a cool eye, almost as if he were an impartial observer examining participants in an experiment.  He wasn’t too tall, thought he was taller than you, which you preferred, and his body filled out his nerd-chic clothes very nicely.  His hair was textured and tousled, tumbling over his brow and hiding his eyebrows, making him look younger than his jawline and the rest of his body indicated.  Even though his large brown eyes inspected you with neutrality, they displayed a vulnerability that piqued your interest.  

You couldn’t resist a good boy and, smiling, raised an eyebrow.  He blinked, turning to say something to the professor, who nodded before picking up the briefcase that had been sitting at his feet, and walking into the Engineering building.  Without a second glance, the young man turned, showing you his back, and you felt a flash of interest.

They say that women and cats never come when you call them, but come right away as soon as you ignore them.

Intrigued, you walked over, cornering him before he could escape.  “Hello.  What’s your name?”

He looked down at you through black horn-rimmed glasses, before turning to walk in the other direction.  “You don’t need to know.”

Charmed, you followed, giving him your most dazzling smile.  “Well, Rude One, my name is--”

“I know who you are,” he interrupted.  “The entire campus knows who you are.  You’re not exactly discreet.”

“Meow,” you laughed softly.  Seeing that you were about to pass one of the brick posts that ringed the Sunken Gardens, you maneuvered him into it, crowding him until his back hit the column with a soft thump.  Standing on tiptoe, you leaned in, til your mouth was close enough to his ear to taste it.  “Do you know how many beauty marks I have on my body,” you breathed.  Moving back, you looked up at his face, analytically noting the dilation of his pupils and slight flaring of his nostrils, the colour that suddenly rose in his cheeks.  

“I--” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, raising a hand to wipe his mouth.  

Taking a step back, you smiled before reaching up to unpin the blood red rose that you perpetually kept in your hair.  Kissing the fragrant bloom before tossing it at his chest, you then turned and sauntered away.  

***

It was easy enough to learn his name and information--Kim Junmyeon, grad student, TA to Dr. Zuniga.  You decided to start slowly.  After all…

The hunt was the best part.

Apparently, Junmyeon liked art, especially post-impressionism, so when the campus museum announced that they were going to host a Van Gogh exhibit, you made sure that you were there on opening night, dressed in your longest, slinkiest dress--black, with a modest neckline, and a plunging back--your normally riotous curls demurely pulled over one shoulder and fastened with your signature red rose.  

You made sure to arrive before he did, planning to always stay either turned away from him, or in profile as you thoughtfully looked up at some painting or another.  In truth, you liked art, too--had vacillated between being an art major or an aquatic biology major, (but practicality had won in this, if not in your personal life).  Unlike your intended paramour, you preferred the work created between the Renaissance and Neoclassic movements (barring Roccoco, but pegging Junmyeon for a sentimentalist, you’d be willing to bet that he enjoyed the mawkish era). 

“Carmelle.”

You stilled.  Apparently, too deep in your thoughts, you had stood for too long in front of one painting, allowing Junmyeon to catch up with you.  Glancing to the side, you took in how handsome he looked in a flowing silk ashes-of-roses shirt layered over a crisp white cotton button down, the sleeves rolled up to expose his strong forearms.  Several buttons were undone to reveal a tempting expanse of chest, though a pair of necklaces resting on said chest--dog tags layered under a medium silver chain--kept the look tasteful.  Tailored black trousers and--you blinked in amusement--matching black Chuck Taylors completed the outfit.  The entire perusal was done in less than a second, before you nodded in acknowledgement, and turned back to the painting--one of Brietner’s Girl in Red Kimono series.  “Junmyeon.”

He raised a dark brow. “You know my name.”

“It wasn’t hard.”  After a beat, you smiled, preparing to take your leave.  “Well--”

“You like art?”

Stilling, you turned back around to look at his profile as he looked up at the painting.  “Yes.  I do.  I almost majored in it.”

“What’s your favourite medium?”

“Painting, probably.  Or sculpture.”

“I prefer photography, myself,” he said, turning to give you a polite smile, “I can’t paint or draw, but,” he gestured to the painting, “I love to look.  What do you think he was trying to say?  What does it mean?”

Thoughtfully, you looked back at the painting, tilted your head.  “All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors...We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.  All art is quite useless.”  He looked down at you, his brow furrowed in surprise, and you wanted to laugh.  He opened his mouth, but you held up a hand, “Oscar Wilde.  Preface to The Portrait of Dorian Gray.”  Smiling, you gave him a graceful nod before turning, the burning feeling of his eyes grazing down your back.  “Have a good evening.”

When you found out that he had a younger brother--Sehun--who attended the school on a basketball scholarship, you took a calculated risk, and charmed your way past the ticket taker before sneaking in, peering over the crowd.  Fortunately, it didn’t take too long to find your target, and even luckier, the spot that you wanted behind him was empty.  

As you slid into the seat, you marked the exact moment he caught the signature scent of your rose damascena perfume.  Keeping your eyes on the court as he subtly lifted his head and looked around, you tried not to smile when he caught sight of you before whipping back to face the front.  He didn’t look around again for the duration of the game, but you were still treated to the reddening of the back of his neck, every time you leaned close enough for him to feel your body heat.  You quietly left before the game ended, resisting the temptation to run your fingers through his thick dark hair as you stood, opting instead for mystery.  

Later perching on the balcony railing of a nearby dorm, you searched for him as everyone streamed out of the arena, eyes darting to catch his combination of soft white crewneck, comfortable grey hoodie, and hideous blue baseball cap.  

It took a while, there were only stragglers when you finally sighted him--the baseball cap giving him away--and you smiled as your eyes followed him to his car.  However, what you saw when he stopped made the smile quickly drop.  His was an old white Ford Pinto--the kind that you hadn’t seen since you were a child--but it wasn’t that that caused you to grind your teeth, caused you to lean forward as you straddled the balcony.  

It was the slur spray painted across his hood in the other team’s colours.  

He looked around, and so did you, until you sighted the three boys, wearing letterman jackets from the opposing team, leaning against an enormous truck--tires almost half their height--and laughing.  Pulling out your phone, you zoomed in, taking pictures of the boys, their car, their license plate, and Junmyeon’s car, before turning on the camera and letting it roll.  

To your surprise, Junmyeon didn’t escalate.  Unfortunately, they were all too far away for you to hear anything that was said, but you could see that he stood firm, posture straight, head level as he spoke to the three--two of which were substantially larger than he.  Deciding to take the risk and stop filming, you quickly called campus police, and told them what you had seen, agreeing to send the evidence to their email.  They descended within minutes, and you smiled in satisfaction as the three were escorted away by a burly officer.  

Your smile dropped once more when you turned to look at Junmyeon, who hung his head as soon as all three were out of sight.  He calmly climbed into his car, calmly shut the door, and then you watched as he leaned forward to rest his head and folded arms on the steering wheel.  It was too far to tell, but…  Once you saw his shoulders start to shake, you averted your eyes.  Picking up your phone, you called a contact that you hadn’t talked to since high school, heart leaping in relief when he answered.  “Hey, Bubba?”

“Carmelle Laveau, as I live and breathe!”

“As you do, indeed.  Listen, I got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“You still work on cars?”

“Of course.  Still working in my daddy’s shop.”

“Excellent.  Now, how much would you charge to come up to the college and do a paint job for me?”

***

You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh or cry.  After all the hard work that you had done calling in favours and pulling strings to have the guys prosecuted--which would have meant their automatic expulsion--Junmyeon had apparently waltzed into the jailhouse and advised that he didn’t want them prosecuted.  Evidently, he wanted them to do community service, instead.  On the one hand, you admired his maturity and foresight, but on the other hand…

You had wanted to crush them.  

You settled for leaking into the campus grapevine that someone had been behind their arrest and arraignment, so that you could later capitalize on his feelings of gratitude, if necessary.

Since pulling strings behind the scenes didn’t net your intended outcome, you decided to get some skin in the game by occasionally leaving a chilled bottle of what was seemingly his favourite beverage--banana milk--on his desk in the office he shared with Dr. Zuniga and the other TAs, but made no further contact.  This system worked well enough--you were considering graduating to snacks--until you were inevitably, and unfortunately, caught.

“Hello.  You’re not one of my TAs.  May I ask what you’re doing in my office?”  

You straightened from where you had been leaning over Junmyeon’s desk to place today’s drink, and turned.  Dr. Zuniga loomed over you, uncomfortably close, his thick black brows beetled as he glared at you over silver wire-rimmed glasses.  He was handsome enough, in a barrel-chested, silver-fox kind of way, but you could also tell that he knew it--from the way he kept his black van dyke scrupulously trimmed, to the crisp salt and pepper waves that fell artfully just so over his forehead, to his seemingly never-ending supply of fine Italian suits, when most professors opted for business casual.

Smiling innocently, you gestured to the drink on Junmyeon’s desk.  “Just leaving a gift for a friend.”

“Very kind of you,” he said wryly, “but I don't care for students coming in here while the office is empty, without permission.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Zuniga,” drawled a gentle, melodious tenor from the open doorway.  You peeked around the professor to see one of his TAs--the one that you had seen in the office most often when you made your liquid deliveries--Bastien Ste. Marie.  “I just stepped out for a moment to get a snack.  I told her she could leave Junmyeon’s drink while I went to the vending machine.”

“Did you, now?” Dr. Zuniga murmured, the wind taken out of his sails.  Smiling pleasantly at Bastien, he folded his arms.  “What’s her name?”

“Carmelle Laveau,” Bastien answered promptly, a dusky blush blooming under his chocolate skin at the implication.  

“ID,” prompted the professor, holding out his hand. Annoyed, you reached into your bag and pulled out your student ID, which he examined, before nodding in satisfaction.  “Miss Laveau.” He tilted his head with a courtly little bow, looking you over, before turning away.  You were used to male attention but still, goosebumps prickled over your skin.  “You would do better to concentrate on your studies rather than my TAs,” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked to his desk to pick up some paperwork and put it in his briefcase.  Snapping it shut, he gave you a look.  “A s much as your parents are paying in tuition, I’m sure that you can find something better to occupy your time.”

You merely smiled beatifically as he left the office.

Bastien walked over, and you reached up to gently the soft waves of his crisp, close-cropped hair.  “Merci, chaton.”

“Pas de probleme,” he said, preening under your caress, before turning to lean on Junmyeon’s desk beside you, his dark eyes dancing.  “If I can’t have Junmyeon, I can at least watch while you catch him.  But you best get on, he’ll be here soon--ain’t nobody as prompt as that boy.”  

Standing up on tiptoe to give the lanky darling a kiss right in the center of one of his adorable dimples, you finger-waved before sauntering backwards.  “I don’t deserve you.”

“If you were a man, Carmelle.  If you were a man.”

“If I were a man, then I’d love only you.”

“Tempting.”

Grinning mischievously, you flipped your hair.  “If I were a man, I’d wear you out.” 

He smirked, slapping a hand to his chest.  “You better stop before you make my heart flutter.” 

***

You hated running.  You really did.  Yet, there yo