So, so confident. That tall head of his held mighty high above his broad neck. A splash of a smirk on his lips, eyes halfway lidded but intense and daring, he struts over, flanked by his friends, but leading them, always, a step ahead. 

He looks at her like that, the announcement of his approaching presence so overpowering, it’s unacceptable to deny it, the way he looks at her. While his friends are laughing about something distant and unheard to them, he brushes past her, taking his time, raising a hand to the top of her head, messing up her hair with a loose tousle. 

Soojung pretends, like she’s playing along in his little game, she pretends real hard, like a sheet of ice she is in front of him. Turning swiftly, a dry and unamused laugh, followed by a, “Get your hand off of me!” 

He turns back too, less than half way, that sharp jawline angled toward her, the smirk flickering into something of a secretive smile. “Have a nice lunch, Soojung.” 

Yeah, she likes him. Kim Jongin. Everything, from the oozing confidence streaming through his pores to that low, carefree, voice; her type. 

When she’s caught off guard, at times like during P.E, his huge hands are clasping her upper arms in a heartbeat, shoving her onto the sidelines lest a mob of scrambling boys fumbling for the flying basketball run over her, and leaves her there just as fast as he’d been over her, the basketball suddenly in his hands, leaving a flitting scent of confidence and attitude in her air.

And at home, when her phone buzzes from an unknown number, she knows, because that strange number, she’s memorized to the last digit, no matter how many times she asks herself, “Why?”

The school is terribly old fashioned, and Soojung is more embarrassed, than happy, with her name in the first spot on the list of highest test scorers, and she stands as far away from it as possible,  uselessly scanning the board for another name, not hers. It’s not like she hadn’t been expecting it, the way he walks over to her, hands in his pockets, ducking his head in between her and her view of the board, a tickle of a smile in the gleam of his eyes while his mouth is still too smug. “Congratulations, Jung Soojung.” 

The feeling that she mulls over, head hanging with her hair curtaining her blush, once he’s walked away, far enough away for her to let her guard down for just a little bit, it’s an electric heart, and he’s one cool bastard.

Byun Baekhyun doesn’t no about numbers, and it’s her fault for relenting to help him with the worksheet, but he’s trying, she has to give him that. The way thin, veiny lines in his eyes writhe in confusion, over the variables and calculations he’ll never be able to comprehend, it’s the least she can do, a polite, encouraging smile. 

The note falls in front of her worksheet with a thud, haphazardly folded, all wrinkles and corners, not unlike Byun Baekhyun’s poor brain, and while he gets up and returns to his seat somewhere off to her right, she unfolds the crinkled mess. “No smiling.” 

Tap, tap, it’s his fingers, and he’s looming over her, passionate eyes angry, as if he has some privilege she’s never given away to be angry, but he adds with a soft whisper, “No smiling at other guys, okay?”

He starts showing up at the convenience store, just one little road down from her house, with two boxes of juice in his large hands, and the payment she faces for accepting that juice box, for the remainder of the day, is him, always somewhere close by, ready to snatch up any neatly folded confession letter in her shoe cubby, crumpling them to dust in his fingers. 

She likes it, the way his gaze hardens, but she has no idea how long Kim Jongin will make her wait, until there’s something more special between that sharp, fierce gaze, and her cold, rebellious little act, just take a step closer already; just like that. 

It’s not her fault that she slapped his hand away, his fingers were tough and strange and hers had felt so small against them, and it’s not her fault that hurt shades his brows, because she’s just feeling a little bit anxious. It’s just that the more he steals her heart, the more she deepens her cold, unrelenting act, but it’s all for naught, the little show she’s been putting up. He’s already the star in her heart, that maddening feeling he envelops her in, sparkling, brighter than anything, and surely, the glistening star, he knows, how fine he is. 

Another letter, clean and crisp writing, warm, brown ink on orange paper, dedicated to, “Dear, Jung Soojung.” There’s no point in even reaching for it, because it’s gone, crushed under powerful hands, and she glances over at him, the smirk growing more confident day after day. “What a rookie.” The rookie with the brown ink and orange paper has no chance but to end up at the bottom of a trash bin, never once having touched Jung Soojung's hands, and for Kim Jongin, that’s that. 

Credits to Red Velvet's Rookie. 

By Jellyfriedgreen7