Tsk, why in the world are there so many types of wedding invitations? Who in the world has time to go over a hundred pages of fancy stationery? I thought out of everything, choosing a wedding invitation would be pretty simple but no. You had to choose the design, choose the font, and then the size. There were even different types of papers to choose from. I mean, what the hell is all this? Both Kris and I just wanted to choose something simple, or whatever appears first but once our mothers found out about that, they immediately shot the idea down. I groaned when I clicked on what was possibly the 50th page and still, nothing was appealing to my eyes.

 “Kris.” I called. “Oppa.” I repeated and turned my head to face him. I was sitting on his lap with his arms loosely resting around my waist. I frowned when I noticed his eyes closed and his breathing even. “Yah. Yah!” I elbowed his stomach to get him to wake up

“Ah!” Kris jolted awake and yelled. He groaned once the pain registered in his mind and rubbed his stomach soothingly. “What was that for?”

“I needed to get your attention.” I simply replied. I focused my attention back onto the laptop, “Help me with the invitations, please.”

“It's boring.”

“We can do something after finishing these invitations.”

“Fine.” Kris scooted forward, one hand splaying across my stomach to keep me in place as the other settled on the laptop. “There. Done.” He said after a few clicks and a couple presses of the button.

Seeing his careless attitude, I went over the choices he made to make sure they were at least acceptable. Baby pink invitations? What is this? Ah whatever, I don't feel like dealing with this anymore. The pink ones are good enough. I closed down the invitation's window and opened up a game of mahjong, deciding to spend my free time with that while using Kris' lap as a chair. I concentrated on the game, eyes roaming and trying hard to get all the available pairs in record time. I lost concentration when I felt Kris pressing his fingers against my waist and the familiar feeling of being watched by his laser eyes. “Kris, stop staring at me.”

A smirk crawled onto his lips, “Why? Is it making you nervous?”

“More like disturbed.” I corrected. “You're always watching me.”

Kris buried his face into the nape of my neck and smiled, “Remember you used to get mad at me for staring at you too much? Especially for the times I had to baby sit you?”

I set the mechanical pencil I had in hand down and sent Kris a dark glare, “Stop it.”
The corner of a 17 year old Kris curved up into a smirk, “Stop what?”
“Stop watching me.”
“I'm not watching you.”
“Yes you are!” I snapped and faced the stupid teenage boy, who was sitting beside me, in a huff. Stupid, overgrown, imp