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The late afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the student council room, turning the long oak table into a stripe of molten gold.
The room isn't empty today as several other council members occupied the seats. Kai from the finance committee scribbling notes, Ryujin organizing the sponsorship folder, Taehyun doodling absentmindedly on his agenda, and a couple of freshmen reps whispering about poster designs.
They all glance up when the door swings open twenty-three minutes late.
Beomgyu steps in without rushing, school blazer slung over one shoulder like an afterthought, dark hair slightly mussed from the wind outside, necktie loose on his neck.
He offers the room his usual half-smile—the one that makes most people swoon and forgive him before he even opens his mouth. It's the same easy, charismatic grin that got him elected president in the first place making the freshmen squeal in their seats.
Everyone knew he was popular.
He was the guy who could charm teachers into extensions, draw crowds at basketball games with effortless tricks, and somehow make skipping class look like a personality trait.
So when election time came, the votes poured in on name recognition and that effortless appeal alone. You were the only one who campaigned on actual plans and accountability—and still lost by a landslide.
You slap the pen down hard enough that it bounces once and rolls toward the edge of the table. The other members exchange quick glances; they've seen this routine before.
“You’re late,” you say.
“I had gym.” Beomgyu drops into the president’s chair at the head of the table as though he hasn’t just skipped three consecutive meetings. “Coach made us run extra laps. Apparently I looked too relaxed.”
Kai snorts quietly. Ryujin hides a smile behind her folder.
“You’re the president.” You stand slowly, the chair scraping behind you. “You don’t get to look relaxed. You get to be here. On time. Every Wednesday at 3:30. That was the deal when you ran—and when the rest of the school population stupidly voted for you.”
He tilts his head, watching you with that same unhurried curiosity he always wears when you get angry, like your temper is a rare bird he wants to study up close.
The other council members shift in their seats, sensing the tension but staying quiet; they've learned not to interrupt when you're in full vice-president mode.
You round the table, loafers click against the wood floor with precise, irritated rhythm before stopping directly in front of him—close enough that he has to tip his chin up slightly to meet your eyes.
“Do you even know what we discussed last week?” you demand. “The budget re-allocation for the spring festival? The sponsorship letters that are already two weeks overdue? The fact that the decorating committee is threatening to quit because their president hasn’t shown up once?”
Taehyun mutters under his breath, “She’s right, hyung…” but trails off when Kai nudges him.
Beomgyu’s gaze never wavers from you. If anything it softens, the faintest curve touching the corners of his mouth but you don’t notice.
You lean down, planting both hands on the armrests of his chair, caging him in as your face comes closer—much closer—than you ever intended.
Close enough that you can see the individual flecks of amber in his dark irises, the nearly invisible scar that curves under the tail of his left eyebrow, the way his breath hitches for half a second when the tip of your nose almost brushes his.
The room goes unnaturally quiet. Ryujin's pen stops moving. Kai's eyes widen slightly. Even the freshmen have frozen mid-whisper.
“Are you even listening?” you hiss.
Your voice has dropped without you realizing it. The anger is still there, coiled tight, but the space between your mouths is so small now that every word feels intimate.
Beomgyu doesn’t answer right away.
He simply looks.
Not at your eyes—at all of you. The faint flush high on your cheekbones. The way strands of your hair have slipped loose and curved against your jaw. The way your lips stay parted after you finish speaking.
Silence stretched. Thick. Warm. Electric.
The other members exchange awkward glances, suddenly very interested in their papers and then ever so quietly, he says,
“You’re beautiful.”
The words land soft, almost surprised, like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud.
You freeze as your grip on the armrests tighten until your knuckles were pale and for one long heartbeat, you can’t remember how breathing works.
Beomgyu doesn’t move. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t try to take it back. He just keeps looking at you with that same unguarded intensity, as though the rest of the room—the agenda, the budget sheets, the wide-eyed council members—has dissolved.
Ryujin clears her throat delicately. “Uh... should we... take a five-minute break?”
You straighten abruptly, face burning, stepping back as if you were electrocuted. The air felt colder without his warmth so close.
Beomgyu leans back in the chair, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact with you. One corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smirk, but more like he’s tasting the silence you’ve just shared and found it sweet.
“I’ll stay for the rest of the meeting,” he says. “I’ll sign whatever needs signing. I’ll even write the damn sponsorship letters myself if you want.”
Kai raises an eyebrow and Taehyun grins like he’s just won a bet. You cross your arms, trying to rebuild the wall you let slip.
“You should’ve been here last week.” you say,
“I know.”
“And the week before.”
“I know.”
You exhale through your nose, sharp. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head again, studying your flushed cheeks, the way you keep shifting your weight like you can’t decide whether to bolt or stay. “But I’m here now.”
The words hang between you, simple and dangerous.
You look away first—toward the agenda sheet still lying abandoned on the table, toward the schedules pasted on the wall, toward anything that isn’t his face.
“Fine,” you say at last, voice clipped. “Sit there and behave. We’re already behind.”
You turn to retrieve your pen, but not before you catch the way his gaze follows you—soft, unhurried, almost tender.
The rest of the meeting drags on in that same strange, suspended haze. The other council members have settled into their roles again, but the atmosphere feels different now—thicker, like everyone is hyper-aware of the space between you and Beomgyu at the head of the table.
Kai keeps sneaking glances over the rim of his glasses while Ryujin's pen taps an irregular rhythm against her notebook. Taehyun stopped doodling entirely and is now watching the two of you with poorly concealed amusement, chin propped on his hand. The freshmen reps whispered less, their eyes darting between you and the president like they’re waiting for the next scene in a drama they didn’t expect to witness live.
Beomgyu, for his part, stayed unnaturally still.
He didn’t fidget with his phone, didn’t doodle on the margins of the budget sheet you shoved in front of him, didn’t even lean back with that lazy sprawl he usually does when he’s bored.
He simply sat with his forearms resting on the table, fingers loosely linked, and watched you. Not staring, exactly but more like... observing.
Every time you reach to flip a page, every time you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, every small, unconscious movement seems to pull his gaze like gravity.
Ryujin caught it once and quickly looked away, biting her lip to hide a smile as Kai pretended to cough into his fist to hide his own grin.
When you finally pause to ask, your voice comes out sharper than necessary—sharper than you meant it to in front of everyone.
“You’re taking notes, right?”
He blinks once, slowly, like someone waking from a daydream. Then he picks up his pen—black, expensive, the kind that probably costs more than your monthly allowance—and begins writing neatly without a word.
The room works in near-silence for another forty minutes after that.
Beomgyu signs where he’s told to sign. He asks one quiet, surprisingly thoughtful question about the vendor contracts that makes Taehyun raise an impressed eyebrow. He even volunteers to help Ryujin double-check the sponsorship tracker spreadsheet, leaning over to point out a small calculation error without making a show of it.
By the time the last item is checked off and the last signature scrawled across the permission form, the golden light has deepened to amber.
“That’s everything for today,” you say, closing the folder with a soft snap and the others begin to gather their things with unusual speed.
Ryujin stands first, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll email the updated minutes tonight,” she says, already halfway to the door. She shoots you a quick, knowing look—nothing overt, just a tiny lift of her brows that says we’re all seeing this.
Kai follows, muttering something about basketball practice and Taehyun stretches dramatically, then claps Beomgyu on the shoulder as he passes.“Good job actually showing up, hyung. Don’t ruin it next week.”
The freshmen scurry out behind him, giggling under their breath as the door clicked shut for the last time. Within thirty seconds, the room is empty except for the two of them.
You stand and so does he—smooth, unhurried, like rising water. You expect him to make some quip, to toss out a casual See you next week, Vice President and saunter out the door the way he always does but he didn’t
Instead, he rounds the table toward you and you feel your pulse increase once again.
He stops a respectful distance away. “I’ll have the sponsorship letters ready by Friday,” he says. Quiet. Serious. “Scanned and emailed. You’ll have copies for the treasurer and the advisor.”
You search his face for the joke but you found none. “...Okay.”
He nods once. Then, his voice softens. “I’m sorry. For the last few weeks.”
The apology lands heavier than any excuse he could have offered. No deflection, no charm to cushion it. Just the truth, plain and bare.Your throat tightens. You look down at the folder in your hands, at the neat stack of papers you spent the last hour pretending were more important than the boy standing in front of you.
“I don’t need apologies,” you say finally. “I need you to show up.”
“I will.” Two words. Simple. Certain.
You risk a glance up to find that his expression hasn’t changed—still that same quiet intensity—but there is something new in the set of his mouth. Not a smile. More like resolve.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then, Beomgyu reaches out slowly, giving you every chance to step back, and brushes the very tip of his thumb along the edge of your jaw, just under your ear. The touch is so light you might as well have imagined it if not for the sudden heat that races across your skin.
“You had a strand stuck here,” he murmurs.
Liar.
There is no strand and you know it. He knows you know it.
Your breath catches anyway as he lets his hand fall, stepping back to give you space again. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
You swallow and nod, not really knowing what to else to say.
Beomgyu picks up his blazer from the back of the chair, slings it over his shoulder the way he always does, and walks to the door but pauses with his hand on the knob.
Without turning around he adds, almost too quiet to hear.
"You’re still beautiful when you’re mad, by the way.”
Then he’s gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps fading down the corridor—leaving you alone in the golden afternoon light with your heart hammering against your ribs and the ghost of his thumb still burning on your skin.
You press two fingers to the spot he touched, steadying your breathing.
And for once, you don’t try to talk yourself out of the feeling that blooms warm and reckless somewhere in your heart.
───────────────────────────────
The next morning arrived too bright, too soon.
You walk into homeroom with your bag slung over one shoulder, trying to look like nothing has changed.
Like you didn’t spend the entire walk to school replaying the quiet click of the council-room door, the weight of Beomgyu’s thumb on your jaw, the way he said you’re still beautiful when you’re mad like it was the most obvious fact in the world.
You slide into your seat, open your notebook and stare at the blank page.
Your pen doesn’t move.
By lunch you’ve managed to convince yourself it was nothing—just Beomgyu being Beomgyu. Charming. Careless. A momentary glitch in the usual pattern of him disappointing everyone and somehow still getting away with it. You almost believe it.
But the moment you step into the corridor outside the cafeteria, you saw him again. Leaning against the wall near the vending machines, one foot propped back, scrolling through his phone with that same lazy grace.
He’s changed out of the uniform blazer into the soft black hoodie he sometimes wears under it, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks up the second you appear—as though he felt you before he even saw you and your stomach executes a traitorous flip.
“Hey,” he says. Simple. Soft. Like he’s been waiting.
You stop a few paces away, clutching the strap of your bag a little too tightly before responding.
“Hey.”
A beat of silence. Not awkward, exactly but more like the air between you is holding its breath.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asks.
“Not hungry.”
He nods like he expected that answer. Then he pushes off the wall, slips his phone into his pocket, and falls into step beside you without asking permission and you start walking toward the courtyard out of habit.
He matches your pace perfectly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Neither of you spoke for half a hallway until you couldn’t stand it anymore.
“About yesterday—” you start. At the exact same moment he says, “I meant it.”
You both stop and he turns to face you fully. The corridor is mostly empty—lunch rush already inside the cafeteria—so his voice doesn’t have to fight to be heard.
“I meant it,” he repeats, quieter now. “Every word. I wasn’t trying to mess with you. I just...” He exhales through his nose, a small, almost self-conscious sound. “I looked up and you were right there, angry and gorgeous and close enough that I could see the little freckle under your left eye I never noticed before, and it just—came out.”
He’s not smiling. Not teasing. Just looking at you with those dark, steady eyes that suddenly feel far too honest.
“I’ve been thinking about saying it for a while,” he adds. “Didn’t plan on it happening like that. But I don’t take it back.”
Heat climbs your neck again. You hate how easily he does this to you—unravels every careful wall with a handful of quiet sentences. “You—” You swallow.
“You may think I said it in passing because I’m acting normal right now but it's a façade.” One corner of his mouth quirks. “I’ve been a nervous wreck since I left that room. Kept replaying it. Wondering if I ruined everything. If you’d tell me to stay the hell away from you.”
The admission is so unguarded it steals your breath making you glance away, toward the row of lockers, toward the scuffed linoleum—anywhere but his face. “I didn’t... I don’t want you to stay away.”
The words slip out before you can catch them and Beomgyu goes still. When you finally risk looking back, his expression has softened into something dangerously tender.
“Then don’t make me,” he says, words landing like stones in still water, rippling outward until your whole chest feels full of them. You don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything. Instead, you start walking again—slower this time and he falls back in beside you without hesitation.
Outside, the courtyard is quiet with a few juniors are sprawled on the grass eating convenience-store kimbap. The cherry blossoms are long gone, but the trees still look soft against the sky. You stop under one of them, out of direct sightlines from the building window and Beomgyu stops too.
He’s close again—not crowding, just near enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him in the cool spring air. “I’ll come to every meeting from now on,” he says. “No excuses. I’ll even bring snacks if it keeps you from murdering me with your eyes.”
A tiny, involuntary laugh escapes you. “Bribery now?”
“Desperate measures.” He shrugs, but his gaze stays on your face. “I don’t want you to think I don’t care. I do. About the council. About... you.”
Your heart stumbles over itself as he reaches out hesitantly, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. He lets his fingertips graze the back of your hand. You barely felt it, as if it was a question more than a touch.
Then, his fingers slide down until they thread loosely through yours. You don’t pull away.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just standing there under the tree, holding hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world while the rest of the school moves around you in distant noise.
Eventually he murmurs, “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying to figure out whether to kiss me or push me into the fountain.”
Your face flames. “I am not.”
He grins—small, crooked, devastating. “You kind of are.”
You open your mouth to argue, then close it again because he’s not entirely wrong. Beomgyu’s thumb brushes once, slow and deliberate, over your knuckles.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly. “Not unless you tell me to.”
You look up at him—really look at the boy beside you. The boy who always skipped every responsibility like it was a game. The boy who somehow still managed to make you feel seen even when he was barely showing up.
And now that same boy was standing here now, holding your hand in the middle of the school courtyard like it’s the only place he wants to be.
You squeeze his fingers once. “Okay,” you whisper.
His smile blooms slow and real, lighting up every corner of his face before leaning in—just enough to press his forehead gently against yours. “Okay,” he repeats.
The bell rings somewhere above you, sharp and distant but neither of you moves for several more heartbeats.
When you finally do pull back, your fingers are still laced with his and you knew that whatever happens next, you’re walking into it together
.
───────────────────────────────
The days after that courtyard moment blur into something softer, quieter, and infinitely more dangerous. Beomgyu kept his word, showing up to every student council meeting—early, even.
He sits at the head of the table with actual notes in front of him instead of his phone, bringing convenience-store ramen cups and iced coffee on Fridays because he 'noticed you always look like you’re running on fumes by the end of the week.'
He signs documents without complaint, asks real questions about the festival logistics, even mediates when two committee members start bickering over color schemes.
You catch yourself watching him more than you should. The way he pushes his sleeves up when he’s focused. The way he bites the cap of his pen when he’s thinking. The way his eyes always find yours first whenever he walks into a room.
You hated how you now noticed everything.
Then two weeks later, the spring festival prep reaches fever pitch. You’re both staying late almost every day—sorting banners in the storage room, double-checking vendor lists, arguing quietly over whether you should use fairy lights or not and tonight was no different.
The school was mostly empty and the janitor has already locked the main gates but you both have special permission slips to stay until nine.
You’re in the art room now, surrounded by half-finished festival posters and the sharp smell of acrylic paint. Beomgyu sat cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully outlining gold lettering on a massive welcome banner while you kneeled a few feet away, taping down edges of another one.
Confortabke silence has settled between the both of you before he breaks it by speaking without looking up.
“You’ve got paint on your cheek.”
You blink. Touch your face instinctively. “Where?”
Beomgyu sets his brush down and wipes his hands on the rag beside him. He scoots closer on his knees until he’s right in front of you.
“Here.” His voice low, thumb brushing your left cheekbone in a slow, deliberate manner. The pad of his finger comes away streaked with pale blue.
You freeze but he doesn’t pull back. Instead his hand lingers, cupping the side of your face. His palm is warm, slightly calloused from numerous basketball games and trainings. His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second, then lift again—searching.
You can hear your own heartbeat. Loud. Fast. Embarrassing.
“Beomgyu...” you say softly, barely a whisper. You’re not even sure what you’re asking for but he hears it anyway.
"Hm?” He murmurs. “You know I’ve been thinking about this... Every single day since that afternoon in the council room. Longer, probably.”
Your breath catches as he leans in slowly, giving you time to push away.
You don’t.
His forehead rests against yours first, eyes closed as you breathe the same air. You feel the faint tremor in his fingers where they cradle your jaw.
He then tilts his head—just a fraction—and his lips brush yours. Soft. Tentative. Like he’s asking permission with every millimeter.
You answer by pressing forward, deepening the kiss slowly, carefully. His mouth is warm and hesitant at first, then surer when you part your lips just enough. One of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The other finds your waist—gentle, steadying—like he’s afraid you might disappear if he holds on too tight.
You taste spearmint gum and the faintest trace of the iced coffee he drank earlier. You feel the quiet hitch in his breath when your fingers curl into the front of his uniform. You hear the small, involuntary sound he makes when you tilt your head to kiss him deeper.
It’s nothing like the dramatic first kisses in movies—no fireworks exploding, no dramatic music swelling. It’s quieter. Real. Just the two of you in an empty art room surrounded by drying paint and crumpled poster paper, finally closing the distance that’s been shrinking for weeks.
The kiss ends slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you really wants to let the moment slip away. Your lips are still tingling when you pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads resting together, noses brushing.
Beomgyu’s hand stays cupped around the back of your neck, thumb stroking once, lazy and warm, while his other arm loops loosely around your waist. You’re both quiet for a second—too quiet—until the obvious crashes into you all over again.
Choi Beomgyu had just kissed you.
Choi Beomgyu, the council president.
Choi Beomgyu, the most popular guy in the entire school.
Choi Beomgyu, your eternal source of endless frustration and stupid butterflies.
And you kissed him back.
You blink up at him, voice barely above a whisper. “Why did you do that?”
You knew the answer to that question. Both of you have been indulging on the idea for weeks now but still, you wanted to hear it directly from him.
He tilts his head, brows lifting in that amused, knowing way. “Do what?”
“You know what.” You poke his chest lightly, trying to sound stern even though your face is burning. “Kiss me. Just now. Why?”
Beomgyu’s mouth curves—slow, teasing, devastating. He leans in until his lips are hovering right over yours again, close enough that you feel every word.
“Because I like you, dummy.”
The word lands soft and fond, wrapped in that familiar playful tone he always uses when he’s half-teasing, half-serious . You stare at him for a beat before you laugh—short, disbelieving, a little shaky.
“You’re kidding.” He doesn’t laugh back and instead his expression softens, eyes searching yours like he’s making sure you actually hear him this time.
“I’m not.” The laughter dies in your throat. Your smile falters as the weight of it settles. He really isn’t kidding. Beomgyu’s thumb brushes your cheek again, gentle. “I don’t go around kissing people I don’t like.”
You swallow. “You don’t go around kissing people at all.”
“Exactly.” His grin returns, smaller now, almost shy. “So when I do... it means something.”
Your heart does a ridiculous flip in your chest. “You’re so—” You huff, half-laughing again, shoving at his shoulder lightly even though you don’t actually want him to move away. “You’re impossible"
“It’s not nothing.” He catches your wrist before you can pull back, brings your hand up and presses a quick, feather-light kiss to your knuckles. “It’s kind of a big deal, actually. To me.”
You roll your eyes, but the gesture feels weak. “Smooth talker.”
“Only for you.”
The words are still hanging in the air between you, simple and huge all at once. His thumb keeps tracing slow, absent circles over your knuckles like he’s afraid if he stops touching you, the moment will vanish.
His eyes keep flicking to your face—searching, hopeful, a little wide like he can’t quite believe you didn’t bolt.
You let the silence stretch just long enough to watch him squirm, the tiniest bit. Then you tilt your head, lips curving into something playful.
“So... you like me,” you say slowly, drawing the words out like you’re tasting them. “Like, like like me.”
Beomgyu’s ears go pink at the tips. He tries to play it cool—leans back on one hand, lifts a brow—but the flush betrays him.
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter than usual. “I do.”
He then tugs you closer until your knees bump his again. “I can't believe you're this surprised when we've been holding hands for weeks now”
“We held hands once!” you complain.
“Same thing.” He laughs as he poked your side, making you squirm. “Now I've said it outright. I like you. And I know you're dying to tell me you like me too”
You gasp, mock-offended. “Excuse me?”
“Admit it.” He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You like me back. Say it or I’ll kiss you again until you do.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Effective blackmail.” His grin turns wicked. “Five... four...”
You shove his face away playfully, laughing despite yourself. “Fine!, maybe I like you too, you annoying—”
Beomgyu doesn’t let you finish the sentence as he kisses you again—quick, bright, full of that stupid, giddy energy that makes your stomach flip. When he pulls back this time, he’s beaming like he just won the lottery.
“See? Was that so hard?”
You groan, burying your face in his shoulder to hide how badly you’re smiling. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” His arms wrap around you fully now, chin resting on top of your head. “You love me.”
“Slow down, Mister President. We literally just kissed for the first time like five minutes ago.”
“And we’re already at the ‘I like you’ stage. We’re moving fast. I like it.”
You pull back just enough to glare up at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And now you’re stuck with me.” He boops your nose once. “Miss Vice President.”
You swat his hand away, but you’re smiling so wide it hurts. Then, because the teasing has to go both ways, you tilt your head and add in a deliberately casual tone.
“I mean... I guess I like you a little bit too.”
Beomgyu freezes. Blinks. Then his eyes narrow in mock suspicion.“‘a little bit ’?”
You shrug, fighting a grin. “Yeah. Like... a tiny, insignificant amount. Barely noticeable. You’re lucky I tolerate you at all.”
He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Tolerate? After I poured my heart out? After I confessed like some lovesick fool in an art room that smells like regret and acrylic?”
You snort. “You confessed like a drama king. ‘Because I like you, dummy.’” She mimicks. “ Who calls the person they like a dummy?”
“The guy who’s about to kiss you until you take it back,” he threatens, already leaning in.
You dodge at the last second, laughing as he chases you across the small stretch of floor between banners. “No take-backs! I said what I said! That’s practically a love letter coming from me!”
He catches you around the waist from behind, spinning you once before pulling you flush against him. His chin hooks over your shoulder, voice dropping low and warm against your ear.
“Say it properly or I’m never letting go.”
You twist just enough to look at him—his eyes sparkling, cheeks still flushed from laughing, paint smudged on his jaw now too.
“Fine,” you murmur, softer this time, letting the playfulness bleed into something real. “I like you... maybe a lot more than a little bit.”
His grin turns blinding. “Better.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple. “But we’re working on the ‘maybe’ part.”
You elbow him lightly. “One step at a time, dummy.”
He laughs—bright, unrestrained—and doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in again, catching you completely off guard when his lips find yours for what feels like the hundredth time in the last thirty minutes.
Soft.
Playful.
...and a little longer than necessary.
When he pulls back this time, you’re already glaring at him through half-lidded eyes, cheeks flushed and heart racing.
“Beomgyu,” you groan, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “We just had our first kiss like... thirty minutes ago. And now I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve kissed me. Not even a full hour has passed!”
He has the audacity to look proud. "Well you’re not exactly pushing me away.”
You open your mouth to argue—then close it again because, damn it, he’s right. Your fingers are still curled loosely in the front of his hoodie, and you haven’t made a single real attempt to create distance.
Instead you huff, crossing your arms even though it means you have to let go of his hoodie.
“That’s not the point. The point is—” you gesture wildly between the two of you “—we’re supposed to be finishing these banners. Not turning the art room into... into some kind of kissing booth.”
Beomgyu’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Kissing booth sounds fun. We could charge admission. Raise funds for the festival.”
You swat his arm. “Stop it.”
He catches your wrist mid-swat, brings your hand to his lips, and presses another quick kiss to your knuckles—because of course he does.
“See?” he murmurs against your skin. “Can’t help it. I've kissed you like four times now. You’re addictive.”
You yank your hand back and stare at him, incredulous. “You’re counting?”
“Of course I’m counting.” He leans in again, voice dropping to that low, teasing murmur that always makes your stomach flip. “First kisses are important milestones. Gotta keep track so I can brag later.”
“You’re hopeless,” you mutter, but you’re smiling so hard your cheeks ache.
“Hopelessly smitten you mean.” He steals one more quick peck—barely a brush of lips—before you can protest. “See? Five. We’re on a roll.”
You shove at his chest lightly, laughing despite yourself. “Stop! The banners are never going to get finished if you keep this up.”
Beomgyu gasps, clutching his heart like you’ve wounded him. “You’re choosing paper over me?”
“I’m choosing not getting yelled at by the janitor when he finds us making out instead of working.”
“Making out,” he repeats dreamily, eyes sparkling. “I like it when you say it like that. Though what we're doing isn't really what making out is but we'll get there” he winked.
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but you can’t stop the grin. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”
“I’m lucky you like me,” he corrects softly, all the teasing melting away for a second. His fingers lace through yours again, squeezing once. “Even if it’s only a medium amount for now.”
You squeeze back. “Working on the upgrade,” you murmur.
His smile turns quiet, almost shy—the same one he wore when he first said he liked you. “Good,” he whispers. “You need to keep up because I’m already at ‘a lot’ and climbing.”
You lean your forehead against his shoulder, hiding how badly your heart is racing. “Finish the banners first, Mister President.”
“Will do, Miss Vice President.” He kisses the top of your head—soft, lingering—before finally reaching for his brush again but your hands stay linked the whole time you work.
And every few minutes, when you think he’s focused on the gold lettering, he sneaks another quick kiss to your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth— basically anywhere his lips could reach.
You complain.
You laugh.
But you don’t actually stop him.
By the time the janitor’s keys jangle in the hallway outside, the banners are mostly done
…and neither of you can quite remember how many kisses it took to get there.