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Summary
Yuta mouths around for the straw blindly without breaking eye-contact with Doyoung. He remains unfazed by how it smacks him wetly in the face. “So,” he says, sipping noisily. “Is this a date?”
Doyoung glares at him.
“See,” Yuta points out, “that isn’t a no. You haven’t given me a no. I’m a great lover of lexical semantics.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“Do you want me to?” Yuta leans forward on the table, and his eyes gleam like liquid mercury in the weak afternoon light. “You could make me. You could make me, and I’d let you.”