His lips come again, heavy on my mouth. “You’re right.”
He’s so good at ruining me, but I’m starting to get serious. “Yeah. I mean, I want you―”
I shouldn’t have said that because now he’s kissing right under my ear, both his hands roving across my back. Ugh! Why does he have to make this so hard?
“Chansol, stop.”
He breaks the embrace the moment I command it, sitting on the other side of the couch, far away from me.
I didn’t want that much space, but maybe it’s better this way.
“I just want it to be special,” I say, reaching over and taking his fingers. “If,” and I mean if because I still don’t think this can work, “if this is going to last, I want to save the best part for later. When we know we can be together longer.”
He nods, but he’s not looking at me. Oh crap. I made him mad. I don’t want him mad, but I’m sure taking things too far would be a mistake right now.
There has to be something I can do to make up for it, and I have a feeling kissing isn’t going to be the solution. Even if I’d like it to be.
What we really need is a change in pace.
I stand up. “You’re probably still hungry. How about we finally get that food?”
#fangirlproblem15
The simplest things make me happy.
Even world class chefs have to order pizza when the circumstances call for it. Chansol and I share an orange while we wait for the delivery, talking about his favorite music.
“I was surprised when you had Coldplay on your Instagram. I’ve liked them for a long time, so it made me feel closer to you.”
He peels off an orange slice and shoves the whole thing in his mouth—only chewing a couple of times before swallowing. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he says. “You were right about us stopping. I just needed a minute to calm down.”
That was random.
“I really like you, so it was hard,” he says.
He really likes me? It’s still hard for me to comprehend, but he was the one who said the words.
Dangit, now I want to kiss the smirk off his face. “I wasn’t worried about it.”
Is he blushing? He’s been so open with me I didn’t think his shy side would come out, but here it is in full view. I like it.
“What I’m curious about,” I say, feeling devious, “is how much you like me.”
There’s an orange slice in his mouth and I watch him swallow the thing whole. That’s gotta hurt. He gulps a few times then takes a drink of water. “You don’t know? I didn’t show you well enough?”
Holy crap, he’s being serious. He actually likes me. It’s not that he kissed me because we’re alone together, it’s because he likes me. Enough to stop kissing me when I asked him to.
Yep. This has got to be a dream.
The doorbell rings, and I pay the delivery dude my entire jar of change since I’m feeling nice. Even if I don’t have enough money to fix my car.
“Should we watch a movie?” I say, sliding the hot pizza on the table.
“Sure.”
I pull out my laptop and the picture I was saving is still on my screen. I close it as fast as I can, hoping he didn’t notice but knowing he did. When I dare to peek at his expression, that signature smile is so wide I’m afraid his face will break.
I try to think of all the Korean movies I’ve wanted to watch. It should be something he understands, too.
“How about this one?” I say pointing to a picture of two very attractive guys, not that that’s the reason I want to watch.
“No way!” he says, a little more forcefully than he needs to. “Pororo. Let’s watch Pororo.”
Isn’t that a little kids’ show? I giggle but pull it up, anyway. It’s my one night with him, I don’t care what we watch.
It’s getting really late. Or really early. Either way, I’m exhausted. After one episode I can’t sit in the hard kitchen chair anymore.
I’m not really sure what to do about sleeping arrangements, because I know if I invite him into my room it’ll be trouble. But I can’t offer him Sam’s room, and I can’t let him sleep on our hard couch.
“You can sleep on my bed,” I say. “I’ll just sleep out here.”
He gives me a look that says don’t-even-think-about-it. I give a look back that says what’s-your-solution-genius?
“How about this,” he replies. “We spread some blankets on the floor and we both sleep out here.”
Man, he really doesn’t want to let me go. But that sounds just as dangerous as the bedroom.
He seems to be thinking about it too. “We should sleep head to toe.”
Yeah, I know I’m not strong enough to resist him spooning me in the middle of the night. It’d be better if his feet are in my face.
“Deal.”
I grab every blanket we have in the house like we’re building a fort. Before long, we’re lying down, drifting to sleep.
“Talitha,” Chansol says, right before I fly off to dreamland.
“Hm?”
“I’m really glad I got to meet you today.”
Seems strange that it’s only been a day, but I’m grateful for it. “I’m glad too,” I say. It’s hard to think when I’m tired.
“Talitha,” he says one more time.
My eyes are heavy, but if he wants to talk, I’ll always listen. “Yes?”
“This isn’t the end. Don’t give up on me.”
#fangirlproblem16
It’s harder to let myself be loved, because I’m a fangirl.
The pain starts in my heart. It’s a pinprick in my chest, a needle stuck through my skin all the way to my wing bone. Everything convulses and contracts, erratic with agony.
Chansol. I want to say his name out loud, but I can only focus on the throbbing.
“Don’t,” I manage to squeak out. But it’s all wrong, too filled with the hurt.
Remembering is the hardest thing. Remembering what it was like to hold him, and smell him, and kiss him.
“Talitha.”
I even have his voice echoing around my head.
“Talitha.”
The sting spreads from my chest to my stomach. It hurts. It hurts everywhere.
“Hey, wake up. Talitha, are you okay?”
I startle, sitting up and clutching my chest. It was a dream. All my fears coming through while I slept.
His cold hands press into my cheeks. “Talitha?”
I can’t focus on him without my glasses, but he’s real, and he’s sticking around.
“Are you okay?” he asks again. “I’m worried.”
I pull my glasses on, wanting to make sure it’s really him. “How are you here?”
He smiles. Gosh, he kills me. “I drove you here last night. Remember?”
I do, but it still feels dream-like.
His hand trails down my neck and to my shoulder. “I think you had a nightmare.”
Did I? Is that why I feel a cold sweat on my brow? “It was so real. You left.”
He plays with my hair, tucking a piece behind my ear. “Nope. You have to keep dealing with me, at least for a while longer.”
As if this isn’t my fantasy come to life.
“You know,” he says, his wandering hand trailing down my arm. “You look really beautiful when you first wake up.”
I automatically cover my face, realizing how horrid I must appear. Morning breath, too. Ugh.
He eases my fingers away from my eyes. “I want to take a good look at you.”
“I’m ugly.”
“Never,” he says, kissing my forehead.
This is the best dream I’ve ever had. But it can’t be a dream, because I really have to pee and my stomach is growling.
Chansol’s hands start wandering again—around my shoulders, down my arms, up into my hair. Never mind my own physical needs, I can’t stop looking at him.
Every place he touches is fire. I might as well burn into a crisp right now for all the touching he�
��s doing.
His face leans closer, and I can tell he’s going to kiss me again, morning breath be damned.
That, I won’t tolerate. I want Chansol to remember me as sweeter than the aftertaste of pizza.
I roll out from under him and find my feet. “Sorry,” I say, walking backward. “I’ll just...” I point to the bathroom with my thumbs, and then I run.
Pull yourself together, Talitha. He’s still here and he’s obviously still into me. Heaven knows why.
It would be so easy to just give in and let him hold me, but I need to be stronger than that. My nightmare wasn’t just a dream, it was a premonition of things to come. All I can do is be strong while he’s still around.
I do the best I can to clean myself up in a short amount of time, then come back out to the living area.
Chansol has neatly folded our bedding and set it on the couch. I don’t see him, so I walk into the kitchen. There he is, all one hundred and eighty-five centimeters of him. Half of his hair is pushed straight up, and he still has a sleepy face on.
He’s doing the dishes, as if this reality couldn’t get any better.
“You don’t have to,” I say, running over and trying to take the pan from his grip.
He grins wide. “I’m your guest. I wanted to.”
“But—”
He puts the pan in the drying rack and shakes the excess water from his hands. “You’re too late, I’m already done.”
Not fair. I haven’t been able to do anything for him yet.
“Chansol—” I start with a sigh, but a loud knock at the door cuts me off.
I raise an eyebrow, and he shrugs. Crap. What if his manager is here to pick him up? We just started talking. I’m not ready.
No one can take him if I don’t open the door. I look out the peephole and see a manager standing there. Not Chansol’s manager, but mine. The building manager, that is. I didn’t call for him, and I know my rent is paid.
I wrench the door open, biting my lip. I hope Chansol stays in the kitchen. There’s no way of knowing how the building manager will react to a boy in my place. Technically, I can. As long as he doesn’t move in with me. But it’s better to be safe. I’d rather avoid the questions.
“Can I help you?” I say softly.
“There’s a phone call for you in the hall.”
I try not to let my relief show. “Great, I’ll just take it then.”
The building manager heads down the stairs, and I pick up the hanging receiver. “Hello?”
“Talitha!” It’s Sam. She sounds flustered. “Have you looked outside yet?”
“No.” The view is better inside my apartment at the moment.
Sam huffs. “Well, I can’t make it back this morning. The roads are insane. It’s raining really hard.”
Heat rises to my face. I shouldn’t be blushing, but I hope this means Chansol and I are rained in. I still don’t think we should do that, but it’ll be nice to have him around.
I twist the phone cord around my finger. “Is it?”
“Dangit!” Sam says. “I’m the worst friend ever. You’re all alone. I should be there for you.”
I forgot she doesn’t know Chansol’s here. I don’t want to tell her. It’ll ruin the fantasy.
“It’s fine, really. I have plenty of food, and I’ve been wanting to try making something new, anyway.”
I can almost see Sam pouting when she speaks again. “Are you sure?”
“Have a nice day with your family. Call Eric. I’ll enjoy my time alone, I promise.”
“Fine,” she says, biting, “but I’m coming back the second I can.”
“I love yooooouuuuu,” I say as I move the phone away from my ear and hang up. I’m glad to know she cares, and also glad she’s not coming back yet.
When I enter the apartment, Chansol’s at the table dangling a slice of cold pizza over his mouth.
My legs are too dang short. “No!” I scream, running. “Don’t eat it!”
I jump onto the table trying to get up high enough to knock the pizza out of his hand. He takes a gigantic bite, unaware of my attempt.
“I wanted to make breakfast,” I say, laying out on the table, defeated.
He stands, setting down the slice. Crap. I don’t like the look in his eye. He leans over me, placing a hand on either side of my shoulders. It takes him a second to swallow, but he never takes his eyes off mine.
“I only had one bite,” he says. “You can make me breakfast, if you want.”
How can he still smell like cinnamon sugar? I thought after a shower and sleeping...but no.
I should say something. It wasn’t my intention to be pinned under Chansol like this. I just like cooking, and I wanted my food to be the first thing he ate this morning.
My arms pull into my chest as I tuck and roll off the table. Chansol laughs as I bowl over the chairs on the other side of him. I end up falling less gracefully than I planned. My feet can’t find purchase as I scramble up, so I use the table edge for support to stand.
“Am I that scary?” he says once I’ve composed myself.
Yes, he is. Terrifying. I can’t trust myself around him. “New rule while we’re stuck here. Three feet distance. The length of this table.”
He folds his arms, his mouth turning into a thin line. It sounds dumb now that it’s hanging in the air, but I’d like to get to know the real him, not just the physical side. I’ve only seen who he is in front of the cameras.
I hold my hands up as I step around the table and toward the kitchen. “Three feet.”
He looks like he’s trying to hold in a laugh, but I don’t let that deter me. I grab a spatula and hold it out like a weapon. “You just stay right there while I cook.”
His demeanor collapses as he scoffs. “I’ll comply, but only until after breakfast.”
I suppose that’s acceptable. “You better.”
His hands go in his hoodie pockets—my hoodie pockets—as he smirks. “It’s probably good, anyway. You have me feeling all kinds of things. Mostly nerves.”
Me? No way. I don’t know what I could possibly do to him to make him say that. Not to mention how bold he’s been with me. If this is nervous, I’d wonder what his comfortable looks like.
I let the spatula drop to my side, the burning question that’s been in the back of my mind finally rising to the surface. “Chansol, why are you here?” I mean, I know he’s here because of the media, but there’s something else. “It doesn’t make sense that you’d stay with me like this. Are you sure it’s okay?”
There’s that neck-rub thing he does so sexily, again. “Talitha, you have no idea. When SM approved my idea to come here—” he cuts himself off, looking at the ground. “Look. It doesn’t make sense now, but it will. Tomorrow night. If you want me to leave until then, I’ll go. I never meant to force myself on you.”
SM approved his idea to come here? As much as I want to know more about his statement, I decide he needs to understand how much I don’t want him to leave.
“It’s not like that. I want you here. Promise.”
I love how his ears lift when he really smiles. There’s so much adorableness, I don’t know how he can contain it all.
He claps his hands together. “Glad we got that out of the way. Now, what are you making me for breakfast?”
#fangirlproblem17
Finding laughter in unlikely places.
The Dutch pancakes are still steaming when I place them on the table. I wanted to make Chansol something that he maybe hadn’t tried before.
“What’s this?” he says, his eyes going wide.
When I said pancakes, I’m sure he was expecting something flat that could be flipped to cook both sides. That’s not how Dutch pancakes work. They’re more like an egg-bread cake. They even bake in the oven and rise.
They also have a perfect pocket in the middle for fruit or whatever else. Today, I stick with the traditional lemon juice and powdered sugar. It’s not too sweet, and I love it.
/> “Just cut it with your fork and knife, then dig in.”
I wait for him to eat first. My favorite part of being a chef is seeing someone enjoy their meal. He lifts his fork as if he’s proposing a toast, then shoves it into his mouth.
His jaw works as he takes the first chew, and I hold my breath, knowing the flavor’s going to hit him any second. At first, his nose scrunches, his eyebrows folding inward. His mouth pinches as he swallows. He turns his head, coughing into his arm, and then takes a giant gulp of milk.
Was it really that bad? I cut my own bite and let it swirl around my tongue. It’s fantastic. Soft in the middle, crispy on the outside, with a hint of citrus. The powdered sugar has melted into the bread so it tastes like frosting.
When I look up, Chansol has his hand in front of his lips. His eyes are slits, like he’s smiling so huge he might burst. He snorts, and I try to reach over the table to smack him, but he leans back.
“Three feet,” he says, holding his hands up.
This case warrants an exception. No one jokes about the food I make. I might be small, but I can be fast when I want to be.
Chansol stands at the same moment I do, his hands still up. He should be afraid, because I’m about to give him the beating of a lifetime.
“Please don’t,” he says, running to the other side of the table. “I promise that was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
I fake left then sprint right, but he’s made his way around faster.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his face turning red. “I won’t do it again.”
Words aren’t going to calm me down, I’m on a mission.
I start to move right, and he moves in the same circle. When he gets to the edge of the table, I pause, taking a good look at him.
“Let’s just sit down and eat again,” he suggests.
My shoulders go down, and I let my face relax so he thinks I’m giving in. He lowers his hands and takes a deep breath. That’s when I jump.
“Three feet!” he screams when I get hold of his hoodie.
I go straight for his armpits. He lets out a high-pitched squeal, and I know I’ve struck tickling gold.
“Please, please,” he begs, but I just get in closer, tickling harder. If he thinks I’m letting him go, he’s wrong.
#fangirlproblems Page 6