Chapter Text
So, Geonwoo…”
Geonwoo doesn’t even look up, too busy enjoying his lunch. A rare moment of peace now that class ended early thanks to the chaos that is college festival prep week. Most students are running around like caffeinated ants with glue guns and posters. Not Geonwoo. He’s keeping his sanity intact by not participating.
Well, technically, he is helping. His class got stuck with decorating the singing department’s booth, and as always, group responsibilities magically become his responsibilities. But still—no stage, no performances, no humiliation. A win is a win.
He’s currently sitting at the table with Leo and Sangwon, two-thirds of his usual chaos crew.
“Have you worked on that chem report?” Leo asks casually, like he hasn’t skipped three labs already. “I might need some help.”
“I’m not giving you anything,” Geonwoo says, wiping his mouth with a tissue like the composed academic weapon he is. “You still owe me money for letting you copy our English homework.”
“I’m buying you coffee later.”
“Ask Sangwon.”
“I’m not asking Sangwon—he writes in cursive like an old man.”
Geonwoo smiles smugly, especially when Sangwon flips Leo off and throws a bread crust at him.
“I need new friends,” Leo mutters.
Geonwoo laughs. It’s moments like these—tiny, chaotic, bread-throwing lunches—that keep him sane. That, and not letting anyone copy his work ever again. He almost got called into the office last time, and if he has to pretend to cry in front of a professor one more time, he might just transfer.
“HELLO!!”
Oh no.
Oh no.
There goes the serotonin.
Geonwoo’s good mood packs its bags and leaves the building the moment he hears that voice—bright, annoying, and always three decibels louder than necessary. His chewing slows. His shoulders tense. His fight-or-flirt response activates.
Xinlong.
Light brown hair, annoying face, and a smile that makes Geonwoo’s stomach do something it really shouldn’t. He rolls his eyes. Hard. Maybe even harder than last time.
He and Xinlong go way back. High school. Geonwoo was minding his own business, and then bam—Xinlong transferred from China to Seoul and decided Geonwoo’s existence was his personal playground. Pranks, teasing, and only directed at Geonwoo. Naturally, Geonwoo assumed Xinlong hated him.
He had no choice but to return the favor, obviously. Equal pettiness rights.
Now, college hasn’t changed much—except Xinlong’s hair got nicer, his jaw got sharper, and Geonwoo’s ability to ignore his dumb, pretty face got significantly weaker.
Sangwon immediately clocks the change in Geonwoo’s posture and smirks like the menace he is. Geonwoo kicks him under the table. Lightly. Maybe.
“Sorry for bothering you,” a guy next to Xinlong says, the actual polite one. “I know you’re eating, but I just wanted to say thanks for helping with the decorations. I know it’s a lot of work, but you pulled it off really well.”
Geonwoo hums a vague “No worries,” without looking up, more invested in his dessert than human interaction. He’s polite, not social.
Except—he can smell it.
Xinlong’s perfume.
Of course he wears strong perfume. Why wouldn’t he?
He forces himself to focus on the plate in front of him, trying not to make eye contact. He’s almost successful. Almost.
Until he looks up for half a second—
And Xinlong winks at him.
WINKS.
Geonwoo smirks automatically—pure muscle memory at this point—and immediately looks anywhere else. At his plate. At Leo. At the fire extinguisher. Literally anywhere but Xinlong.
There’s something he hates about that boy.
He thinks.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Geonwoo stabs his dessert with more force than necessary.