JIAH POV
I consider ducking into a store, spot a small shelter ahead, already adjusting my direction like I'm about to save my own life—
And then a hand wraps around my wrist.
Firm.
Sudden.
Zero warning.
I gasp, a very unattractive noise leaving my mouth as I stumble sideways, shoes skidding on wet concrete while I'm yanked into a darker space wedged between buildings.
The rain dulls instantly here, still loud but muted, like someone turned the world's volume down a notch.
My heart goes feral.
"What the hell—"
The voice cuts in before my brain can catch up.
Low.
Deep.
Annoyingly calm.
Amused, even.
"Did you get rejected again?"
For half a second, I'm too startled to breathe. My body freezes on instinct, every nerve screaming danger like I just got kidnapped by the weather itself.
Then I look up.
And of course.
It's fucking Yu Enhyeok.
Tall. Dry under the shelter. Hair slightly damp at the ends, face completely unreadable except for that lazy curve at the corner of his mouth that says he's enjoying this way too much.
I yank my arm out of his grip hard enough that my wrist stings. "You psycho," I snap. "What is wrong with you? You can't just grab people like that. I almost died."
He glances down at my hand like he's mildly surprised it's no longer there. "You looked like an idiot," he says flatly. "Running downhill in the rain like that."
I flip him off instantly. Reflex. Muscle memory. "For your information, I didn't get rejected."
That finally gets a reaction. Not much, but enough. His brow lifts a fraction, eyes flicking back to my face.
"Oh?" he says. "That's new."
"I got invited," I say, chin lifting. "To his match."
"What match?" he asks, tone still infuriatingly neutral.
"The basketball competition," I say, enunciating like he's slow.
Something shifts. He lets out a short chuckle, quiet but real, and looks away toward the rain like I just told him a joke he didn't expect.
"Then you should pray for him," he says.
I scoff. "Please. Jiho is a Good player."
He hums. "Yeah. He is."
I open my mouth to feel smug—
"But not in basketball."
"What?" I snap. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing," he says immediately, eyes still on the street, rain streaking down like the sky's having a breakdown.
"No," I press. "What do you mean by that, Yu Enhyeok?"
He glances at me then, slow and deliberate, like he's choosing whether to poke a bruise. "I said nothing."
My jaw tightens. God, I hate when he does that. Drops a statement like a grenade and then pretends he didn't pull the pin.
He looks me over once, quick and assessing, and then says, "But you're well matched with him."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs. "You chase. He avoids. You wait. He delays. It's consistent."
My eye twitches. "That is not—"
"You're the type who stalks their crush like a creep," he continues calmly. "Schedules your whole day around a maybe."
I step forward without thinking, finger jabbing into his chest. "Say that again and I will actually commit a crime."
He looks down at my finger, then back at my face, unbothered. "See?" he says. "Aggressive too."
"That's none of your business," I snap. "You don't know anything about me."
He nods once. "True."
"Then stop talking like you do," I fire back. "You're such a jerk. Do you wake up like this or is it a skill you practice?"
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something worse. "You're standing in the rain waiting for a guy who rejected you six times," he says evenly. "I'm not the problem here."
I laugh. Not because it's funny. Because if I don't laugh, I might actually grab his stupid collar and drown him in the rain like a feral raccoon with anger issues.
"Yeah," I say, voice sharp and ugly. "Says the guy who's never even held hands with his own girlfriend."
The words land between us and just sit there, wet and heavy like a dropped towel no one wants to pick up.
He goes still.
Not dramatically. Not shocked. Just… still. Like someone paused him for half a second. His eyes flick to my face, then down to my mouth, then back up again, brows pulling together just a little. It's not confusion. It's calculation. Like he's deciding whether I'm worth the effort.
Then his mouth curves.
That lazy, infuriating smirk. The one that makes me want to scream into traffic.
He doesn't deny it. Doesn't correct me. Doesn't even look offended. He just tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over me in a way that feels like he's inspecting damage on a car.
"Bold assumption," he says calmly.
Oh. Oh, I hate him.
"Is it?" I snap. "Because last I checked, people who actually like their girlfriends don't act like emotionally constipated statues in public."
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, but colder. His eyes stay on me, steady and unbothered, and that alone makes my skin itch.
"You spend a lot of time checking on me?" he asks.
I scoff so hard my chest hurts. "Trust me, no. You're just impossible not to notice. You're like a billboard for unresolved issues."
That earns me a look. Not angry. Not hurt. Just sharp, like I finally said something mildly interesting.
And the bastard chuckles.
"So," he says, voice tilting into that infuriatingly casual register he uses when he thinks he's ahead. "You're going to the match because your crush invited you?"
The way he says crush makes it sound like a diagnosis. Something terminal.
I turn my head slowly and look at him like I'm genuinely considering where I'd hide the body. My jaw tightens so hard it hurts, and I can feel my pulse pounding right under my ear.
"Obviously," I say. "What, you think I'd miss it?"
He lets out a soft huff, not even bothering to look impressed. "Figures."
My fingers curl at my sides. I hate that word. Hate how easily it slides out of his mouth like he's known me for years instead of whatever this is.
"This," he continues, finally turning fully toward me, eyes sharp now, "is why you're predictable."
Something hot flashes behind my eyes. Predictable. Like I'm a routine. Like I'm a pattern he solved for fun.
I step closer again, not touching him this time, but close enough that I know he feels it. The air between us goes tight, electric, ugly.
"Say that again," I tell him. "Slowly."
He doesn't back away. Of course he doesn't. He just tilts his head, watching me with that calm, dissecting look.
"You chase people who don't want you," he says. "You call it effort. Everyone else calls it obvious."
My breath stutters. Not because it hurts. Because it hits too close to the part of my brain I don't like visiting.
"Watch your mouth," I snap. "You don't get to talk about me like that."
"Why?" he asks. "Because it's true?"
I laugh again, sharp and bitter, the sound scraping out of my throat.
Fuck.
I hate him.
"I'm going to the match," I say, forcing the words out steady even though my insides are vibrating. "And I'm going to watch Jiho win."
He raises an eyebrow. Just one. A challenge disguised as curiosity.
"Good luck with that," he says.
That's when it hits me. The idea. Stupid. Petty. Perfect.
"And," I add, voice lifting slightly, "I'll be wearing your fucking jersey."
The world pauses.
Actually pauses.
Enhyeok blinks. Once. Then again, slower, like his brain needs a second to reboot.
"My jersey?" he repeats.
"Yes," I say immediately. "Yours."
He stares at me now, properly this time, surprise finally cracking through that controlled exterior. It's subtle, but it's there, and the sight of it gives me a vicious little thrill.
"Why," he asks, carefully, "would you do that?"
I smile. Not happy. Not cute. Mean.
"Because there's no bigger insult," I say. "Than the rival team winning while everyone cheers for you."
His lips part slightly. Then they curve.
"Is that a challenge?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, without hesitation. "And you're going to lose, Enhyeok. I'll pray for it."
Rain keeps dripping off the edge of the shelter, the sound steady and loud, like it's counting something down. He steps closer now, just enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.
"Then don't go back on your word," he says quietly.
I don't flinch. "I won't."
He searches my face, probably looking for doubt. He won't find any. I'm vibrating with rage, pride, and something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"I said what I said," I continue. "I'll wear your jersey to the match and watch my Jiho win."
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AUTHOR NOTE
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