Chapter Text
Three times a week, at one in the afternoon, you had the honor of being graced with the presence of the most attractive man on campus.
Okay. ‘Most attractive’ was probably too subjective. But, objectively, three times a week, one of the class’s teacher’s assistants, Min Yoongi, dropped into room 289B five minutes after the class started with the slouching grace of a panther, and three times a week, your heart stopped in your chest as you watched him.
You had decided to take Music Theory: For Non-Majors during your last year of university for fun. You’d nearly finished your degree, your job was lined up, and you were ready to take an easy course that wouldn’t demand anything of you but class participation and a few straightforward exams. You’d expected to maybe clap your hands a few times to learn what ‘beats’ were, or something, and maybe learn how to read music.
What you hadn’t expected was to be hit with a crush from hell itself – the worst kind of crush, the all-consuming, I-feel-seventeen-again kind of crush. The kind of crush that people sung about. The kind of crush that people wrote terrible teen movies about. The kind of crush that made you stupid enough to pick up a book discarded in the hallway of your apartment complex and actually keep it despite the title.
‘Love: A How-To Guide’ had several qualities, none of which were redeeming. The first: A garishly pink and red cover, replete with yet another subtitle (‘How to Make Your Man Fall in Love With You! And Other Necessary Steps to Happiness’). The second: A copious author’s note at the front that gushed about how many women had found love through this book. And the third: The aforementioned ten-step process, including detailed and largely concerning explanations for each. You were lucky you lived alone, or your hypothetical roommate would never have let you live the book down.
But this was the kind of crush that made you desperate. Stupidly, stupidly desperate. And, as you considered the steps – well, they were all doable, probably.
And – And Min Yoongi was the kind of man that made you willing to try almost anything. Once, he had taught in lieu of the professor because he was the most experienced graduate student assisting with the class, and you had been graced with his incredibly sexy voice explaining the intricacies of intervals. He’d been so kind to the students who had answered his questions incorrectly, and when the class had concluded, he’d reminded everyone that he and the other teacher’s assistant had office hours twice a week if there were any questions. (“There should be no shame in asking questions, but if you don’t want to ask something here, please feel free to come to office hours.”)
Your only qualm with him as a teacher was that you hadn’t paid attention to a single word he had said because you’d been too absorbed in his tiny reflexive movements. The way he’d pushed his hair back carelessly as he’d written on the chalkboard. The way he’d paced back and forth, nodding, when listening to someone’s extended answer to a question he’d posed. The way he licked his lips sometimes between sentences.
He was hot, he was considerate, he was smart: your heart hadn’t needed to ask further questions. You had fallen hard for a man you barely knew. After all, you were honest with yourself in admitting that you didn’t know him any more than the most surface of surface levels, but you wanted to change that. And if this book would help you do it, you wouldn’t even be ashamed.