ENHYEOK POV
Fuck.
Why is she not looking away?
Why is she… still holding eye contact with me like that's normal??
People don't do that with me.
People look away.
Flinch.
Blink.
Do something.
Not her.
She just keeps lifting herself up, staring at me like she's checking if I'm even real.
And it hits weird—somewhere low, tight, annoying.
I should look away.
I know I should.
I tell myself to.
But my eyes don't cooperate.
They just stay on her.
Like an idiot.
Great.
She probably thinks I'm a creep.
Shit.
Look away, Enhyeok.
Now.
…Nothing.
Not a single muscle listens.
She crunches again and her hair shifts, a loose strand sticking to her cheek.
I feel my fingers tighten on her ankles like they're acting on their own.
Why am I counting?
What number is she even on?
Six?
Twelve?
Thirty?
I have no idea.
God.
This is so—
not right.
She lifts again—
her breath shaky, her eyes wider than they should be—
and something in my head short-circuits.
Nope.
I can't do this.
I drop her ankles too fast.
She immediately loses balance and flops backwards onto the grass with a loud, dramatic exhale like I just committed a crime.
She snaps her head up at me.
"What's with you??"
I stare down at her, jaw clenched.
"I lost my count."
"So?" she throws back instantly, eyebrows jumping like I personally offended her ancestors.
"So again."
She sits up halfway, looking at me like I told her to jump off the school roof.
"What?? Why would I start again? Are you insane?"
Probably.
Today?
Yeah.
"Do it," I say, voice flat.
She lets out this loud groan—like theatrical, dying-animal loud—then collapses back onto the grass again in defeat.
I straighten my posture before I crouch again, hands hovering over her ankles like they're waiting for permission.
She starts.
"One."
Her voice is breathless.
Annoyed.
Too close to my ears.
"Two."
She lifts again, face scrunched in effort, eyes avoiding mine now like I'm radioactive.
Good.
She should avoid.
She should stop looking at me like that.
My head is already a mess.
I look away this time—just a little.
Not fully.
She doesn't need to know that.
I focus on anything else.
The grass.
The dirt.
My own damn breathing.
But every lift brings her into my peripheral vision again, like gravity is dragging my attention back to her without asking me first.
Her voice keeps counting, softer now, and it hits somewhere weird in my chest—like it's threading through the silence I usually sit in.
I tighten my grip on her ankles just enough to steady her, not enough to show anything.
She keeps going.
I keep staring at the ground.
My jaw keeps doing that clenching thing I can't control.
This is stupid.
So stupid.
It's just crunches.
Just exercise.
Just her.
Next to me.
Close enough to breathe into my head.
I'm fine.
I'm completely fine.
She lifts again and her voice strains—
"Thirty."
I blink.
Finally.
God.
Finally.
I don't look at her.
Not this time.
I keep my gaze fixed on the grass, breathing steady, face empty.
But inside?
Everything is messy.
Everything feels like a glitch.
And I hate that she doesn't even notice.
_______________
JIAH POV
Aaaah—
my belly hurts from the crunch.
Like actually hurts.
Like someone punched me with school trauma.
That damn Enhyeok.
Motherfucker.
I'm holding my stomach like I'm protecting a baby that doesn't exist and never will because my uterus would rather die.
He stands up, dusts off his stupid long limbs, and mutters,
"Now it's my turn. You don't need to hold my ankles."
I literally sigh in relief so loud he should've said thank you.
Then I flip him off.
Right in his face.
Quick, sharp, elegant.
Art.
He doesn't react—of course he doesn't, he's built from ice and silence—but I feel spiritually victorious as I wobble away, gripping my stomach which is now actively plotting my murder.
I plop onto the gallery steps like an exhausted slug, groaning into the hot air.
"I hate him. I actually hate him. Prison. Straight to jail."
My own voice sounds pathetic.
I lean back on my elbows, breathing like an 82-year-old grandpa post-jog. And that's when my eyes drift to the basketball court.
Specifically—
Jiho.
God.
He's playing.
Like actually playing.
Sweat, jersey, hair pushed back, arms moving—
Ugh. Kill me. He's pretty. This is illegal.
My gaze follows him automatically because my self-respect is fictional.
He dribbles, jumps, shoots, lands—
Everything slow-mo in my head like I'm watching the national geographic of hot boys.
My brain:
He's so good. He's so good. He's so GOOD.
Then my brain, again:
Flashback time, idiot.
Jiho's gentle voice:
"I'm sorry, I don't have feelings for you."
The whispers behind me:
"Again??"
"Fifth? Sixth? I lost count."
"Is she delusional?"
Me standing there, staring at the floor like I dropped my dignity and couldn't find it.
I pout now, the memory stabbing me right in the ego.
"Why, destiny? Why you hate me specifically? There are billions of people. Target them."
I'm mid-pout when suddenly—
"JIAAH, WATCH OUT!"
I look up.
A basketball is flying at me with the speed of a tax notice.
THWAK.
It hits me dead in the face.
I scramble backwards, then forwards, then back again like a malfunctioning robot, hands flying everywhere.
My eyes fill with tears instantly.
It hurts.
It hurts like I just got slapped by God.
Something warm drips down my arm.
I look at it.
Blood.
"OH HELL NO—"
I slap my hand to my nose and yep.
It's gushing like it's auditioning for a horror movie.
I fumble inside my blazer with shaking hands, grab the crumpled tissue I forgot to throw away this morning, and shove it against my nose because survival.
My eyes sting, my pride is dead, my whole face feels like it clocked out of existence.
And then—
Footsteps.
Fast.
Two different speeds.
A pair of legs stop right in front of me. Long, toned, familiar.
I look up—
And freeze.
JIHO.