he always seemed to be staring at you from over those textbooks. huge tomes, with yellowed pages and embossed titles were spread on the desk in front of you, some stacked, others baring their insides to the high ceilings, but they always seemed to be protecting that intent gaze. you kept writing anyway, determined to complete this group project before the deadline.

 

it was an unfortunate mistake that you were paired with such a quiet boy whom, to add insult to injury, you had never spoken to in your life. it was your own fault for being absent when the groups were picked, and you silently cursed yourself every time he piped up to ask you a question. not that he was a bad partner. far from it in fact, the boy was hard-working and intelligent. but he kept staring. 

 

you turned your gaze to the paper, breathing deeply, concentrating on the flow of ink from your pen and the gentle scratching noise that it made. the library was filled with other students working, long hair tickling exercise books, so you fought to keep your irritation to a minimum. if you had an outburst, everyone else would stare. one person was quite enough.

 

those eyes kept burning into the crown of your head, steady, dark, filled with something. it had been almost a week of this; awkward conversation, murmured questions, twitching fingers. it was unbearable, and you could feel it, an itch trailing up from your feet which danced under the table restlessly. a sudden screeching of chairs.

 

“let’s go.” you swallowed, doing your own share of staring now, gathering pens and paper and cellphone into satchel while your partner looked on absentmindedly. his hands rested over a slim book of verse which you had to study for your class, long fingers wrapped about the spine, gently caressing the typeface. 

 

“come on, i want something to drink.” he nodded quietly at that, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a small smile as he stood to full height, all broad shoulders and lanky legs. girls liked him a lot, you had realised over the course of the past week, even though he seemed to have so little to say. it might have been the dark hair. or the bright smile. or the tender way in which he carried himself, never hard or intimidating. 

 

he followed you out of the library in silence, much to your chagrin, the only sound that of leather satchels thudding softly against thighs, and low heels clicking against tile floors. you could have walked for miles and he wouldn't have uttered a word, so naturally, the topic of conversation was delegated to you once more, lilting tones echoing in the empty halls. 

 

“so, what’s your deal?” nobody said you had any skill when it came to making conversation.

 

“what’s that supposed to mean?” he replied, head ducked, glancing sideways at you for just a moment before his gaze turned to the ground. 

 

“it means, you have a staring problem. you keep staring at me. it’s weird, quit it.” fearless, bold, heroic. that’s how you felt until he let out a laugh, long and loud. he even stopped in the corridor, clutching his crisp shirt front, nostrils flaring, eyes squeezed shut as his frame rattled. you almost let out a huff of laughter out of sheer embarrassment, clasping your clammy hands together in front of your uniform. 

 

when he eventually found a second to breath, his brows were raised in a way that suggested you had just told him the most ludicrous story. there you both stood, stubborn, determined, planted to that spot. 

 

“if anybody has a staring problem, it’s you.” that voice was dark, and silky, and teasing, those eyes the same. you were staring, but just then, it seemed impossible not to. it was as much as he’d said this entire time, save for any discussion about the poems you were studying. 

 

you were annoyed more than anything at the way he stood there, hands in pockets, that tall frame curving away from yours, head tipped back. he continued to watch as you stared him down, tongue at the edge of his mouth, patient as ever. it was infuriating, and the cogs in your brain ground to a halt when you realised that there was only one way in which you could beat him at this ridiculous game.

 

he flinched when your lips first brushed against his, but to your own surprise (and pleasure, in all honesty), wonwoo softened against your mouth just a moment later. hands s about his neck, body inching closer, you fused your figure to his, skin burning and cooling with each touch. 

 

he bit down on your lower lip and then you were a goner, a soft sound escaping from your open mouth. maybe you’d both been waiting for this all week. judging by the way he grabbed your waist, wonwoo wanted this more than he had told with his steady gaze. and you, adamant in your irritation, trailed your fingers along the nape of his neck, to the tip of his spine, making figure eight’s in his pale skin. 

 

“you’re so hot.” a reckless murmur upon his lips as you straightened your back against the wall now, following his steps backwards, like some bastardised fred astaire and ginger rogers dance, filled with heavy stumbling and heavy breathing. his mouth, soft, hungry, migrated to your neck, while his hands fell to your hips and your eyes fluttered shut, letting him plant a red mark on your sk— - 

 

“hey! you two!” shrill tones prompted a hasty escape to the front of the school, bruises on the neck and bruises on the thigh from the heavy satchel that you hauled across your shoulder. he strode ahead to the gate before turning on his heel and gliding towards you, hand outstretched to cup the place where burst blood vessels created constellations on your skin. he dragged his thumb along the spot lazily before finally looking into your eyes and smiling in a way that you hadn’t seen before.

 

it was sweet-tempered and easy-going, not at all the way all of the girls in class had described him. they saw a sharp, mysterious being, with nothing better to do than glare at girls and work sullenly. you saw now somebody who listened to music at two am under the blankets while his parents slept, somebody who drew in the margins of his notebook when he couldn’t concentrate, who whispered into your ear while you watched movies, fingers intertwined. 

 

he kissed the corners of your mouth over and over again, still trailing his thumb over your new red bloom, whispering something about an apology. he didn’t need to apologise, you thought, mouth made sweet by his. but you couldn’t express that really, hands and eyes restless, searching, wanting.

 

 in fact, all you could say was,

 

“just keep looking at me.”

 

you didn’t quite know why this had happened, or how to deal with it, but in that moment, his hand woven amongst your skin and your hair, it felt as though those poems you had been studying made sense. he was yours now, for now, for the second that you wanted him, and he wanted you. maybe that second would last eternity, or maybe it would simply be that; a second. either way, he just. kept. staring.