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"Girl. Have you ever even thought about, I don't know, dating a nice guy?"
Your jaw slacked wide-open, the nail file in your hand stopping almost immediately as you stared at your so-called friend. "Excuse me?"
Yumi's hands shot up in front of her chest before you even had the chance to respond, the half-eaten cinnamon bun you'd bought together earlier, one you'd inhaled in record time, nearly flying out of her grip as she instinctively braced herself.
She already knew what was coming.
Judging by the look settling across your face, she wasn't wrong.
"I'm just saying," she said quickly, lifting her shoulders in a defensive shrug. "All I ever hear about is how every single one of them did you wrong. Y'know..." She hesitated for a beat. "San wasn't the only guy who's treated you like crap."
San.
The six-foot-tall mistake from the football team.
God, how could anyone forget him?
For months he'd been annoyingly impossible to miss. All broad shoulders and easy smiles, the type of guy who held doors open for strangers and somehow convinced entire rooms he was a saint. Professors loved him. Teammates loved him. Girls practically lined up to love him. Meanwhile, you'd somehow managed to discover that underneath all that charm was a manipulative asshole with the emotional depth of a puddle.
The worst part wasn't even what he'd done, but it was how stupid you'd felt afterwards.
You hated that part.
Hated that every conversation about your dating history recently somehow circled back to him like he was the final boss of your bad decisions. As if he wasn't already taking up enough space in your trauma-filled head without your friends dragging him back out for discussion every other week.
Your grip tightened around the nail file resting between your fingers.
"Wow," you said flatly, staring at Yumi. "Love that we're bringing him up again. Really keeps things fresh." You open your mouth to speak further, but get interrupted immediately.
"No babe, I'm not finished." She began, though this time her self-defence demeanour changed to that of assertion. Her hand moved from an open palm to a firm finger pointed and dragged over your whole frame in judgment. "You've tried dating the airhead athletes, stuck up DILF's, tattooed bad boys-" "...God that guys mouth was-" You interrupted as you got reminded of that one guy in first year, completely dazed. "-masochistic emos, and dudes with serious mental issues always talking about racial supremacy or whatever." she stopped for a second to let her pink gum inflate into a small bubble, continuing when it popped. "Why don't you try dating a genuine, nice guy... a nerd?"
Her words made you go silent for a moment, but only after your face managed to experience more emotions in those 2 minutes than in, probably, your whole life.
Disgust was the most prominent emotion after imagining yourself next to one of them. And it was definitely for the reason you think it is. The mere thought of standing next to a nerd made something inside you recoil. Nerds didn't fit. Not into your life, not into your carefully curated image, and most certainly not into the version of yourself you've spent years building and perfecting.
You took your reputation around campus seriously. Painfully seriously. Maybe more than even your credits.
Well, actually, definitely more than your credits.
Every choice you make has intention behind it. Every pair of heels that you wore to lectures despite it being impractical, the colour of your nails, the way your hair is parted that day, what specific pair of eyelashes you wear to that party on Friday, your tone of voice when you enter the room, which guy will boost your followers on Instagram. Every. Single. Decision. Was calculated.
Your popularity wasn't by chance.
You knew exactly what kind of pictures performed best on Instagram, which angles got the most engagement, which outfits got reposted, which guys commented, which parties were worth being seen at and which ones weren't worth wasting an outfit on.
The classic campus bimbo, some may call you. You didn't mind it, because it's always you getting whichever guy you wanted, it's always you turning heads when you walk past people in halls, and it's always you when it comes to getting that grade bump from that perverted professor when you push your elbows together a little bit.
That's the precise reason a girl like you couldn't be seen next to the likes of nerds. You can't be dragged down to their level and potentially hurt your reputation.
And if we're being honest, who in their right mind would even want to be with a guy who plays League of Legends in their spare time, or collects Pokémon cards, or thinks being caught up with One Piece makes them better than everyone else?
You scrunch your nose when you imagine the smell.
Anyways, now, sitting on the roughened concrete brick of the fountain outside of your university campus - you made a quick decision to never seek words of comfort about your most recent heartbreak from Yumi. Next time, you should probably just sweep that shit under a rug, like a normal healthy person. Because you definitely didn't sign up for a lecture.
"Bitch, you better be joking because I didn't just hear you tell me to date a nerd." You quickly tried to dismiss it, locking your eyes back onto your nail file, which had now found its previous rhythm.
"They weren't all that bad, don't be silly."
"Are you fucking serious?" She almost screamed in your face, the rise in volume catching the attention of the nobodies passing by, the shock on her face giving you a smirk. Though, you don't flinch. What you do is straighten your posture, push your tits out a bit, and make sure you look perfect for those now looking at you, even if it's for a split second.
Maybe you were proud of the douches you dated, because no matter how badly they treated you, they were hot men who chose you.
"They cheated on you, blackmailed you with your nudes, gaslit you, fucked you up mentally so many times I lost count how many times I had to come over to dye your hair in the middle of the night, or how many times I had to bankrupt myself so you could reinvent yourself that week."
"Only..." You roll your eyes with a glossy pout. "...a couple of times."
"No, the number is so high I think I can't even count up to it." She sighed, flipping her hair over to the other shoulder. Her collarbones glistened from whatever body oil she put on today; you make a note to ask her the brand later. "Listen, you know I love you, and I'm always here for you. But I think it's time for a reality check. I'm not saying any of this is your fault, because the guys have been the definition of assholes. But I'm not gonna ass-lick you and pretend you didn't do anything wrong, because you acted insane as well, and it's clear your choice in men is an issue."
"So... I thought we were friends because we liked to shit talk others, not because I want to listen to my best friend shit talking me to my face." You grumbled, clearly frustrated from the grilling. It's getting boring, because you do not care much about how they treat you, meaning her rampage didn't affect you as much as you showed. You care way more about the fact that these breakups hurt the pedestal you've built for yourself, because if you weren't fought over by the guys who every bitch on campus wants... who were you?
"Other people see it too, y'know." She added. Suddenly, the fountain seemed really quiet.
"What do you mean?" You let your attention stray from the nail file back at Yumi, now invested in what she has to say.
"They can see your lack of respect for yourself when you go for these guys; it's not a flex, you know. Yuna and Ji-woo see it too." At that, you scoff. Yuna and Ji-woo are the last people to comment on your relationships, considering they're the first skanks to sink their teeth into your exes the second they find out they're available. Well, most of the time they don't even wait for the break-up.
"Those bitches need to worry about their own problems, Ji-woo literally got chlamydia two weeks ago." You bite back as you place your filer into your bag, finally done with shaping your nails just how you wanted. You vividly remember the day you found out.
At the time, you were in your room, being a complete and utter loser over another breakup that happened a month earlier, rotting in your bedroom with the curtains shut and your dignity somewhere on the floor. At that point, you had already spent weeks crying over a man who you later figured out wasn't even worth the effort of expensive waterproof mascara you sacrificed for him.
Until your phone buzzed.
You opened the group chat expecting some usual nonsense, like what skirt works best with a specific glittery top, or how out of fashion and embarrassing kitten heels are. But much to your enjoyment, you ended up receiving an image of Jin-woo's positive clap test. The screech of laughter you let out was inhuman, and definitely not one you'd ever let anyone hear. It was loud enough that your miserable, stuck-up neighbours next door immediately started hammering on the wall that separated you.
That being said, you've never recovered from a break-up quicker, purely because you also later found out that she fucked the exact ex you've been crying over. Which she knew, by the way.
Apparently, after he ended things with you - his loss obviously - he spent the entire time sleeping with easy sluts from the cheerleading team like he was providing community service. He soon became known as community dick.
Karma's a bitch, isn't it, San?
"I think it's worth trying something new, maybe a nice guy! " she began, snapping you out of your trance, but you stopped her just as quickly.
"You wanted me to go for a nerd. As fucking if! Even if I did, imagine how shitty the sex would be. They're all probably virgins; I don't have time to teach someone what a clit is and also have them cum the second they put their dick in." You gasped in disbelief; this time, the people around you turned to give you weird looks instead of Yumi.
She looked at you with a deadpan before sliding her hand over her face with a groan. She dramatically raises both of her hands to the sides of her head before slapping them against her legs, making it clear she was done with your bullshit. "You know what! Yeah, forget it, you're right. I bet that even if you tried, there isn't a man with brains who'd give a girl like you the time of day. Since they actually care about personality instead of how big your tits are or how much lip-gloss you got on."
You stayed quiet for a moment, eyes glaring at Yumi.
God. You really are easy as fuck to manipulate. Maybe you should really work on that, because that's all it took for you to grab the bait.
The most annoying thing was that she wasn't even fucking looking at you anymore.
She'd already gone back to scrolling through her phone, completely checked out of the conversation, making it clear she'd said her piece and was not out of the conversation.
Which, unfortunately, meant she wasn't giving you the satisfaction of an argument.
And if there was one thing you hated more than being insulted, it was not getting the chance to defend yourself.
Now that you thought about it, the comment had actually been incredibly fucking rude.
A girl like you? A girl like you? The audacity!
Your jaw tightened slightly.
Your annoyance didn't stem from the fact that she'd called you shallow. Unsurprisingly, plenty of people called you shallow.
It also wasn't because she'd implied you were superficial. You obviously heard that one before too.
It was, however, the assumption that some nerd would take one look at you and immediately dismiss you. As if you weren't even pretty. As if you weren't charming when you wanted to be. As if you couldn't have literally any man on campus wrapped around your finger if you put enough effort into it.
Bitch please.
"That's just not true." You attempted to reignite the died-down conversation.
"Okay." Yumi carelessly replied after a moment, her attention completely on whatever makeup review popped up on her feed. Obviously, that wasn't an answer you were looking for, and you felt your eye twitch at the response.
"Why the fuck are you saying it like that?"
"Babe, I'm not even saying anything."
"You're implying I can't!"
"Then prove me wrong."
Your mouth fell open, closed, then open again in shock. You already felt your pride trying to get in the way of your competitiveness and the inability to not prove people wrong.
Which means you were already thinking... how hard could it possibly be?
I mean... sure, nerds weren't exactly your type. Every conversation somehow ended up circling back to whatever random thing they were obsessed with that week. You admit that you can't see any reason why anyone would be with a man like that.
But, men were still men. And, well, you're you. And once that thought crossed over your mind, Yumi picked up on it instantly.
"I know that look; you want to prove me wrong, don't you? Go on, let's make a bet then."
And just like that, you knew you were fucked.
"What are the terms?"
———————————
"I hate cinnamon."
Jungkook looked up from his coffee like he'd just confessed to a crime.
"Bro, what?" He laughed. "How does anyone hate cinnamon? Taehyung, I think you actually need to get yourself checked."
"Cinnamon contains cinnamaldehyde." Taehyung didn't even glance up from adjusting the settings on his camera.
Jungkook blinked. "...Okay?"
"It lingers. It overwhelms everything else. You can't appreciate subtle flavours because that's all you can taste afterwards." He finally looked at him, completely serious. "It's a selfish spice."
Jungkook stared for a second before snorting. "You did not just call a spice selfish."
"It is."
"It's seasoning."
"It's obnoxious."
"You're obnoxious."
Taehyung simply shrugged in defeat.
"I just have standards." Only then did Taehyung lift his head. His gaze landed squarely on Jungkook's face, lingering for a second too long before dropping to the constellation of cinnamon bun crumbs decorating the corner of his mouth.
He let out a quiet, disappointed sigh.
Jungkook narrowed his eyes. "...What was that look?"
"What look?" Taehyung replied, already lowering his attention to the object in his hands. With practiced care, he twisted the lens from his camera body and replaced it with the new one, listening for the satisfying click as it locked into place.
Jungkook scoffed. "You just judged me."
"I observed you."
"That's somehow worse."
Taehyung ignored him entirely.
The lens was a Sony FE 85mm f/1.4 GM II.
Not an 85mm.
The 85mm.
Lighter than its predecessor. Sharper from edge to edge. Autofocus so fast it could lock onto a blinking eye before most people even realised they'd blinked. Every review he'd read had called it one of the best portrait lenses Sony had ever produced, which, considering the original had already been bordering on perfection, was saying something.
He'd spent three weeks comparing MTF charts.
Two nights watching side-by-side tests.
An embarrassingly long amount of time reading arguments between photographers online over whether the improvement justified the price.
(It absolutely did.)
The glass caught the afternoon sun, the coatings flashing subtle shades of violet and green as he turned it over in his hands.
Beautiful. So beautiful.
Engineering had no business looking this elegant.
Jungkook watched in silence. He didn't just watched; he judged.
"...You're looking at that lens the way normal people look at their girlfriends."
Taehyung didn't even flinch. "It understands me better."
Jungkook snorted, shaking his head. "Or maybe you just don't let people understand you."
The words lingered between them.
"You don't let anyone in, Tae."
For the first time in the conversation, Taehyung stopped turning the lens in his hands.
The cafe buzzed around them - students laughing, bikes rattling outside over the paving stones, someone's music leaking from their phone across the his table but for a moment, all he heard was Jungkook.
He looked up, brows knitting together, eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape.
"...What the hell brought this on?"
Jungkook shrugged, brushing the last few crumbs from his hoodie. "Me and Jimin were talking-"
"That definitely explains why I'm suddenly being psychoanalysed out of nowhere."
"I'm serious." Jungkook groaned, hand reaching up to drag down his face.
"So am I."
"No, you're deflecting!"
Taehyung sighed through his nose. Jungkook took this as a sign to continue before he could interrupt again.
"We just think you need to... live a little." His tone dropped lower, softer.
"I do live." Taehyung sighed, his eyes looking around the cafe out of pure awkwardness.
"You live just enough; it's just survival at this point."
"Well, I've survived perfectly well so far, Kook."
"You know exactly what I mean." Taehyung didn't answer. "When everyone else goes out after lectures," Jungkook said, counting on his fingers, "you're either locked in the photography lab, hiding in the art studio, buried behind your desk watching some three-hour documentary about something random ..."
"It was about the French Revolution yesterday."
"My point exactly."
"You make it sound like a bad thing." Taehyung's tone remained calm, almost bored, as he reached for his iced coffee. He took a slow sip, as if the conversation was nowhere near as dramatic as Jungkook was making it out to be.
"I make it sound like your entire personality."
Jungkook didn't hesitate, setting his paper coffee cup down with a quiet thud on the table. He looked at Taehyung expectantly, waiting for some kind of defence that wasn't related to cameras or colour grading.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Taehyung's face.
It was subtle – little more than the tightening of his jaw - but Jungkook caught it instantly. They'd been friends long enough to recognise each other's moods before either of them spoke.
"You've known me since we were six," he replied. "This isn't exactly new."
His brows pulled together as he spoke, genuinely confused by where this conversation had come from. If this was supposed to be an intervention, Jungkook had picked a very strange topic. "Exactly." Jungkook leaned forward, resting his elbows on the café table. "I've known you since we were six, and not once - I repeat, not once - have I seen you actually try with a girl."
There wasn't any teasing in his voice now, only disbelief. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
"I've spoken to girls," Taehyung answered almost defensively, though he couldn't understand why he felt the need to justify himself. Surely casual conversations counted for something.
"You asked one where she bought her film camera." Jungkook raised an eyebrow, already struggling not to laugh. He remembered the conversation vividly because it'd been one of the most painful things he'd ever witnessed.
"I was interested in the camera." Taehyung shrugged as if that explained everything. To him, it did.
"She was interested in you." Jungkook pointed across the table for emphasis, unable to believe they were revisiting this. Even the barista behind the counter had looked disappointed when Taehyung walked away completely oblivious to the extra care and attention he received from her.
"I doubt that." Taehyung dismissed the idea almost immediately, his attention drifting towards the camera resting beside his coffee. It seemed far more believable that she'd simply wanted to talk about photography.
"You genuinely had no idea, did you?" Jungkook searched his friend's face, hoping, praying, there'd be some sign he was joking. Jungkook really hoped that Taehyung would notice the girls who hold their breath a second too long when he walked past, the girls who blush when serving him a simple coffee, or the girls who smile a bit too much around him in class.
But!
Of course there wasn't a single sign to ease that fear. Taehyung shook his head with a sigh of defeat. "...No."
His answer came so earnestly that Jungkook almost felt bad for asking. Almost. Jungkook let out a long, dramatic groan, throwing his head back towards the ceiling. A couple studying by the window in front of them looked over before quietly returning to their laptops. Jungkook, however, didn't care in the slightest. "See? That's exactly what I'm talking about."
He sat forward again, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. If there had been any doubt before, it had just disappeared entirely.
"I don't understand why this concerns you so much." Taehyung frowned, genuinely puzzled. From his perspective, he wasn't missing out on anything. He had his degree, his photography, his friends - what exactly was the issue?
"Because you're twenty years old and you're treating romance like it's an optional module. "Jungkook spread his hands in disbelief. "You analyse everything like it's an assignment. At some point you've actually got to stop documenting life and start living it."
"It's inefficient and expensive!" Taehyung protested without missing a beat, saying it with the same certainty he'd use to explain a camera setting. To him, it was a perfectly rational argument.
Jungkook glared at him for a second before letting out an incredulous laugh. "You bought an $1,800 lens."
"It'll last longer than most relationships these days do," Taehyung said it matter-of-factly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from the lens before placing it carefully on the wooden café table. The chatter of students and the hiss of the espresso machine barely registered to him, his attention still fixed on the piece of glass in front of him.
Jungkook pointed across the table. "That's it."
A slow grin spread across his face as he sat back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. It was the same grin Taehyung had seen countless times growing up - the one that usually ended with someone making a decision they'd regret. "What?"
Taehyung finally dragged his eyes away from the lens, a crease forming between his brows. Whatever Jungkook was about to say, it wasn't going to be about photography anymore.
"I bet you can't do it." Jungkook folded his arms, his confidence only growing as he watched Taehyung's expression shift. Around them, cups clinked against saucers and a barista called out another order, but neither of them paid any attention.
"Do what?" Taehyung's voice stayed even, though curiosity slipped through despite himself. He leaned back slightly in his chair, waiting for the inevitable nonsense that was about to leave Jungkook's mouth.
"Get a girlfriend." For a heartbeat, Taehyung death glared him because no way was his friend seriously saying that. Then he laughed, a short, disbelieving breath through his nose, as if Jungkook had suggested he take up competitive ballroom dancing. A couple at the next table glanced over before returning to their conversation.
"That's your grand idea?" He shook his head, unable to hide the amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Of all the directions this conversation could've taken, that one hadn't even crossed his mind.
"No." Jungkook's grin only widened. "My grand idea is proving you're all talk."
The smile on Taehyung's face faltered. He rested his forearms on the table, studying Jungkook for a long second, searching for any sign that he was joking. Finding none, he let out a quiet scoff.
"You really think I couldn't?" One eyebrow lifted in challenge, his pride finally outweighing his confusion. The camera sat on the coffee table, forgotten between them for the first time that afternoon.
————
It's been a couple of days since your conversation with Yuji. During that time, you'd been planning exactly how to find the perfect guy for your little game. And so, you pranced down the university hallway like you owned the place. Not walked. Not strolled. Pranced. Like the building itself had been constructed specifically for you to make an entrance. It was 6 p.m. - the golden hour where most lectures had ended, seminars were wrapping up, and the majority of students were either heading home or desperately pretending they weren't avoiding their assignments. Which raised an important question. Why were you still on campus?
Someone who had made it very, overly, clear on multiple occasions that grades were simply numbers created to ruin people's happiness? The answer was simple. You had a bet to win. Keep up. And how else were you supposed to find the perfect candidate for Yumi's ridiculous challenge?
Nerds had no social lives, and that was a fact everyone and their mother could tell you. Because they stayed late. They studied. They lived in libraries and drank questionable amounts of caffeine. They were practically guaranteed to be lurking around campus after hours, waiting to become the unfortunate victim of your genius plan. You mentally patted yourself on the back with a satisfied huff.
Honestly? Brilliant. Truly, you were doing important research. A little public service, really.
Finding out if the rumour, the one Yumi definitely just pulled out of her ass, was true: were nerds actually better than the emotionally unavailable disasters you'd dated before?
"Heh," you thought, grinning to yourself. "Brains and beauty."
A dangerous combination. You were practically unstoppable! The thought of the bet made your steps a little lighter. You just couldn't wait. All you needed was some poor, unsuspecting nerd who had never experienced the privilege of your attention. You'd keep him around for a month. Maybe two.
Longer than that would just prove Yumi's point. You'd never even made it past the two-month mark with anyone. Because let's be honest here, since it stays between us, there was no way someone who spent their Friday nights studying could possibly be worse than the guys you'd already dealt with.
Yumi knows this, too; otherwise, she wouldn't make the bet. However, she couldn't win. You cannot let her win. With your genius plan, not only would you win the bet - because you're planning to break up with the guy just before the two-month mark so he couldn't outlast everyone else - but you might even convince him to help with your assignments.
You stopped mid-step.
Wait...
That was genius. Winning a bet and getting a temporary academic assistant? Honestly, whoever said you weren't resourceful was lying. The more you thought about it, the more appealing it became.
You already knew what you were getting into. They'd be grateful. They'd be impressed. They'd probably worship the ground you walked on. And if they didn't? Well... You had other ways of keeping someone's attention.
A smile spread across your face. Maybe you really were the next Einstein. Maybe-
"Man, her body was fucking amazing!" You froze.
The sentence cut straight through your thoughts like a knife. Your brain, which had been happily planning your future victory, immediately slammed into emergency mode. There was only one voice in the entire world capable of ruining your day that quickly.
You had been so lost in your own little world that you'd forgotten where you were. And whoever had just spoken?
They had done more than pull you back to reality. They had dragged you back by the throat.
Your eyes snapped forward. Three figures turned the corner at the end of the hallway. And then you saw him. The one person you had absolutely not prepared yourself to see.
San.
Your entire body stopped working. Your feet refused to move. Your lungs apparently decided breathing was no longer part of their job description.
Fuck.
FUCK.
F U C K.
Of all the people. Of all the times. Of all the hallways on this entire godforsaken campus. It had to be him.
Panic rushed through you, but thankfully, your survival instincts remained somewhat functional. Because luckily, they hadn't noticed you yet, too caught up in their conversation to pay attention to the person currently having an internal crisis five metres away. Your eyes darted around desperately.
Escape route.
Escape route.
There. Door. Right beside you. Perfect.
You grabbed the handle and shoved it open so quickly you were convinced you had just dislocated something.
You slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind you with far more force than necessary. Then you leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising and falling like you had just escaped a horror movie. Which, honestly? Not that far off.
You were finally starting to calm down when-
A cough. Y'know, the kind where you make the room aware of your presence but brush it off as a genuine one to hide the awkwardness? Yeah, that kind.
Your eyes darted open so swiftly it was almost comical. Because there was one tiny problem. You weren't alone.
Sitting in the middle of the silent art studio, completely and unfortunately aware that someone had just burst into the room like they were escaping a murder scene, was a guy.
A very confused guy.
For a second, neither of you moved.
You stood there with your back pressed against the door, still trying to convince your heart that it was, in fact, unnecessary to beat like you had just run a marathon. Meanwhile, he stared at you like he was waiting for someone to explain why a random girl had just launched herself into his workspace and nearly broke the door in the process.
Fair question. If you were him, you would also be concerned.
The room itself was the complete opposite of the chaos you had just brought into it. It was quiet, warm, and smelled like paint and whatever mysterious chemical artists used that probably wasn't healthy but somehow made everything look expensive. Canvases leaned against the walls, brushes were scattered across tables, and half-finished pieces covered every available surface.
It looked like the kind of place where people came to create something meaningful.
You, unfortunately, had entered it purely because you were running away from a man who ruined your emotional stability. Different forms of art, you guessed.
Your eyes finally landed properly on him.
He was sitting at an easel near the window, a paintbrush still held loosely between his fingers. His sleeves were pushed up, attention clearly stolen away from whatever masterpiece he had been working on and redirected entirely towards you.
Your eyes fluttered. Then you looked around the room. Then back at him, sudden satisfaction seeping into you.
Oh. Oh, this was actually perfect.
Because if the universe was going to hand you the answer this easily, who were you to question it?
You had been expecting to spend hours searching for someone who fit the requirements of your bet. Someone painfully dedicated to their studies, someone who considered a Friday night in the library a fun evening, someone who probably had more conversations with textbooks than actual people.
And now you had walked straight into an art studio and found exactly that.
A nerd! Bingo.
Your eyes travelled over Nerd properly, taking in the evidence. The oversized knitted sweater was the first thing that caught your attention. It practically swallowed him whole, the sleeves hanging past his wrists and making his hands look smaller as he held the paintbrush. It was the kind of sweater someone wore when comfort had completely defeated style - a piece of clothing chosen for warmth, not because anyone was supposed to see it. Nerd's face was, unironically, framed with black glasses that almost swallowed his whole face.
Then there was the slightly messy hair, the paint marks on his fingers, the focused expression as he stared at the canvas in front of him.
You almost laughed. Of course. Of fucking course he painted. You had somehow found the most stereotypical art student imaginable.
He probably had a favourite paintbrush. Probably named it. Probably got emotionally attached to it. Honestly, you wouldn't even be surprised. This was the kind of person who probably said things like "the colour speaks to me" and meant it.
You were starting to feel like you had won the bet before you had even properly started. You focused back on him. The expression on his face was almost impressive.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look irritated that some random stranger had just invaded his quiet little art sanctuary. He just looked completely stunned.
His eyebrows were raised, his eyes wide, and his mouth slightly open, like his brain had frozen while trying to process the fact that a girl had just burst into the room and was now standing there staring at him. You couldn't blame him.
It was probably not a regular occurrence to see such a girl as yourself, especially not for someone like him. He had never prepared for a situation where a person - especially one wearing heels and carrying herself like she owned the building - would suddenly appear in front of him.
The two of you stared at each other for a moment, and you found yourself starting to really study his expression. There was something almost funny about it.
He looked like a deer caught in headlights. You had a specific one in mind but quickly stopped yourself, because there's no way you're giving nicknames to someone you've not even uttered a word to. Nuh-uh, absolutely not.
Ahem! Okay. You need to lock in.
You were about ninety-nine percent sure it wouldn't take much to convince him to become your brand-new boyfriend. A friendly greeting, a couple of strategically timed blinks beneath your lashes, and one of your signature smiles. Easy.
If this guy was exactly who you thought he was - and judging by the oversized sweater, paint-covered fingers, and the fact he was voluntarily spending his evening in an art studio, he'd probably fall in love before you even finished saying hello.
Poor thing. You almost felt bad. Almost.
"Hey," you greeted, your voice slipping effortlessly into that soft, honeyed tone you'd spent months perfecting. You folded your hands neatly in front of you and smiled, enough that your chest was made that little bit more prominent, just enough to sell the whole sweet, harmless, definitely-not-about-to-ruin-your-life act.
You were expecting him to run towards you, come scrambling to even have a chance to have a conversation with you. Instead, you got nothing.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
His eyes didn't instinctively drop the way you were used to. They didn't flicker anywhere below your face for even a second, nor did they light up with that familiar spark of interest you'd seen more times than you cared to count. Instead, they stayed exactly where they were. On you. Specifically, your face.
His brows were still lifted in quiet disbelief, his paintbrush hovering uselessly in his hand as if your appearance had completely interrupted whatever train of thought he'd been on. He blinked once. Twice. Almost like he was buffering.
"...Hi," he replied after a beat, his voice calm and oddly flat. There was no nervous stutter. No awkward scramble to stand up. No frantic attempt to impress you. If anything, he sounded mildly inconvenienced. His gaze drifted past you for the briefest moment, landing on the door you'd nearly ripped off its hinges before returning to your face. "...Did something happen?"
No compliment? No flirting? The fuck.
Not even that painfully obvious once-over most men managed within the first three seconds of meeting you. Just a simple question, delivered with the same detached curiosity someone might use after watching a pigeon fly into a window.
You frowned almost imperceptibly.
That wasn't in the script!!!
Usually, by now, they were smiling a little too much. Sitting up straighter. Suddenly interested in whatever you had to say. This one had looked at your face, noticed you'd clearly arrived in a state of chaos and apparently decided that was the more pressing issue. How unbelievably... Weird. You thought for a second and came to a realisation.
He just must be the painfully shy type! That should definitely explain it.
You should've expected as much. A guy sitting alone in an art studio, voluntarily painting instead of doing literally anything else? Of course he'd short-circuit the second a pretty girl spoke to him. Cute. You could work with cute.
"Oh?" you tilted your head, letting out a soft laugh as though you'd just found his reaction endearing instead of mildly offensive. "Nothing happened."
Obviously, that wasn't entirely true because a six-foot-tall mistake named San had happened. But that wasn't exactly first-date conversation.
"I just..." Your eyes wandered around the studio before landing back on him, your smile widening ever so slightly. "I saw the room was open and got curious."
Technically true. You had seen the room. You'd just neglected to mention it was because you were fleeing for your life. Your gaze drifted back to the canvas perched on the easel. "Hm."
You took a slow step further into the room, clasping your hands behind your back as if you belonged there.
"So..." you hummed, letting your eyes flick between him and the painting. "You paint?"
Brilliant. Absolutely groundbreaking conversation starter. Maybe next you'd ask him if water was wet? What do you think, guys? Well, I mean, you're supposed to have started somewhere. Besides, if your first impression hadn't completely dazzled him, you had to pull out the basics.
Basics 101: pretend you care about a man's hobbies, let them talk about it while asking a question here and there, and suddenly they're in love with you.
His eyes drifted towards the canvas. Then back to you. "...Yeah."
That was it. Just a 'Yeah'.
You waited, because this had to be a joke, your smile still perfectly in place. Surely there was more coming. A little explanation, maybe. Something poetic about colours or self-expression. Perhaps a nervous laugh followed by an invitation to look at what he was working on.
Nothing.
He simply looked back at you, blinking once, as if he'd answered your question in full.
An awkward silence settled over the room. His gaze lingered on you for another second before quietly returning to the painting, the paintbrush rolling between his fingers almost absent-mindedly. He dabbed the excess paint onto a rag resting on his lap, his movements slow and unhurried, like there wasn't a girl standing three feet away trying very hard to be charming.
Right.
Apparently conversation wasn't his favourite hobby. You shifted your weight onto one leg, tilting your head ever so slightly.
"So..." Your eyes wandered around the studio before finding him again. "You're here quite late."
"I lost track of time." He answered without looking away from the canvas, his voice calm, almost absent-minded. There wasn't an ounce of embarrassment in it, just simple honesty, as though losing several hours to a painting was the most normal thing in the world.
"...Seriously?" That finally earned you another glance. He looked up, blinking once before giving the smallest shrug imaginable. It was so casual it almost annoyed you. Judging by the room, it probably was normal for him. Paint tubes were scattered across nearby tables, sketchbooks sat in uneven piles, and mugs occupied every spare surface. One looked alarmingly old, sporting a mysterious ring around the inside that suggested it had witnessed several historical events. Your nose scrunched almost instinctively. "You always stay here this long?"
"Sometimes." Again. Short. Simple. You can't even describe it as 'short, sweet, and simple' for the sake of the cute saying because there was absolutely nothing sweet. It was as if this guy was rationing his words. You narrowed your eyes ever so slightly. Was he naturally this dry? Or was he just not interested in talking to you? Neither possibility did wonderful things for your confidence.
There had to be something. Nobody was this difficult, not with you.
"So..." You nodded towards the canvas, taking another small step into the room. "Is it for an assignment?"
For the first time since you'd arrived, his attention shifted fully away from you. His eyes settled on the painting, studying it quietly for a second before he answered. "No."
"...Just for fun?"
"Mhm."
"...You paint for fun?" That finally seemed to catch him off guard. His eyebrows pulled together slightly, his head tilting a fraction as he looked back at you. Confused. Like he genuinely couldn't understand why that was a strange thing to ask.
"Shouldn't I?" Excuse the fuck me?
Well. That wasn't the response you'd expected.
Most people would've jumped at the opportunity to tell you about themselves. They'd ramble, try to sound interesting, maybe even show off a little. Yet this guy had somehow mastered the art of answering every question with the fewest words physically possible from a man.
One sleeve was now slipping slightly over his hand as he adjusted his grip on the brush. He wasn't fidgeting. He wasn't trying to impress you. If anything, he looked like he'd much rather get back to painting than continue whatever this conversation was supposed to be.
Maybe he wasn't shy. Maybe he genuinely didn't care whether you were impressed.
Impossible. You'd stick with shy. That explanation was significantly kinder to your ego.
Your eyes wandered from him, towards the canvas that was clearly more important than you. Which you still cannot wrap your pretty little head around. From where you were standing, it was mostly blocked by the easel, leaving only patches of colour visible around the edges. Frustrating.
"Can I see?" You pressed harder, hoping that maybe some up-close action would do the trick. That's right, get close to him and make him nervous. Real up close and personal.
"...Sure." He dragged out slowly, as if the thought of you around him was actually so painful that he had to force himself to agree out of sheer courtesy. Even so, he simply shifted his stool a few inches to the side, creating enough room for you to step closer before resting the paintbrush across the edge of his palette.
You wandered over, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. The smell of paint grew stronger the closer you got, mixing with something else - coffee, maybe, or tea. Whatever it was, it had been sitting there long enough to become part of the room.
You stopped beside him, close enough that it was clearly unnecessary, finally getting a proper look at the canvas. Your eyes swept across it slowly. The canvas was long and narrow, and it reminded you of the ratio you see movies in at the cinema. As for the scene itself, it seemed to be a train station, just outside by the tracks. A man was sitting on muted sage-green seats, on the far right of the painting, leaving the left side empty. He was clearly the focal point of the piece, as there wasn't another person in sight.
It looked quite peaceful, and annoyingly good. You were fully prepared to see something painfully pretentious. Random splashes of paint with a title like The Human Condition.
Good. That's what it was. Good, real good.
It made you stare for a second longer than you intended. Catching yourself almost looking impressed and quickly rearranged your face into something considerably more neutral. Couldn't let him get ahead of himself.
"...It's nice," you said, the compliment leaving your mouth with all the enthusiasm of someone admitting defeat. Your eyes flicked towards him with hope for any sort of indication that your interest in his art, and the proximity, had some effect on him. He wasn't watching you. He wasn't waiting for your reaction. In fact, he seemed far more interested in cleaning his brush than whether you liked the painting at all.
This was getting cruel. You were genuinely close enough that he could probably feel your breath on his neck! How has this man managed to make you feel like you were interrupting his evening? Honestly, the audacity!
Don't be shocked, but the silence stretched again. Of course, it was the cunting silence stretched again. It was so fucking awkward. But of course, he seemed very, annoyingly, comfortable. Content, even. Unfortunately, you weren't aware that he was just mentally blocking you out.
He dipped the brush into a jar of cloudy water, giving it a gentle swirl before wiping it against the cloth beside him. Every movement was deliberate, almost methodical, like he'd repeated the routine hundreds of times before. There was a hint of impatience on his face.
Who actually enjoyed silence this much?
You began to search the studio for something. Anything! Absolutely anything you could use to your advantage. Your eyes landed on the camera bag resting beside his stool. Inside, you smiled like a cat who got ate the canary.
Aha!
"So..." You nodded towards it. "Photography too?"
His gaze followed yours. "Observant."
Your lips pursed ever so slightly. This was getting ridiculous. Observant? Observant. This guy couldn't seem less interested if he tried! Most guys would tell you about the awards they'd won, the societies they were in, the projects they were working on. This one acted like he was being interviewed against his will. You exhaled through your nose, looking away for a second.
Okay. Fine. Enough is enough.
You were done trying to play by the rules; clearly, subtlety was wasted on him. "What the fuck is your problem?"
Nerd stilled, the only giveaway that he actually fully focused on what you just said to him. He wasn't facing you, but you could hear a smack of lips and a muted swear come out as he sighed. He rested the paintbrush across the edge of his palette, wiping his fingers absent-mindedly on the cloth draped over his lap. "My problem is," he cleared his throat. "Is that you're full of shit."
You stepped back as if the words were a shockwave. The initial confidence you came in here with evaporated instantly, for the first time in what felt like years. Your throat almost tied itself in a knot, which should've been the first sign that perhaps waving the white flag with this guy is the best course of action. But if it wasn't clear enough, rejection doesn't sit well with you; neither does patience.
"I'm full of what?" You hissed, and although you didn't mean to, it was overly laced with pure venom. You didn't care about appearing innocent and pure anymore. "Full of shit." He repeated, slower, a small smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth as if he took the utmost pleasure in saying it.
"You have a very rehearsed way of talking," he continued. "Like you're trying to convince me of something, as if you have some dark intention behind it all. So cut this act," He picked up his paintbrush and swung it in the air, making a circle around for emphasis - as if your whole outfit, personality, and body language itself was the act. "What do you want?"
You were at an honest loss for words. He fucked up the whole script! Wait, you know what, maybe the way to him is bluntness!
Yes, yes, yes, that could work. I can still save this.
"I want you to be my boyfriend!" You smirked, huffing in confidence as you tilted your chin up, hands coming to rest on either side of your hips. There it is; this is where he folds! The room filled with the faint buzz from the light for what felt like a whole minute before his voice cut through.
"Are you stupid?" His face twisted into the exact expression he wore when you barged into the room, but this time, laced with disgust. Your head snapped down at him so quickly you almost hurt your neck.
"Excuse me?"
"You've known me for what, 15 minutes?" He put out his hand and started putting down one finger at a time. "You barged into this room looking like you've seen a ghost, or judging by your attire, maybe someone who's actually dressed appropriately for University." Nerd paused, giving you a one-over. Not the kind you were used to, where he's checking you out, but the kind that is judging you. Instinctively, you stepped back.
"You lied about it, then proceeded to act alright and innocent. Trying to sweet-talk me even when I gave multiple hints, I'm not interested in conversation. Personally, I don't think this is a good foundation for a relationship. So, I will ask again, what do you want?"
You felt sick. Why did you feel sick? You felt defeated, right up to the point the truth just slipped out of you.
"If you're going to be a dick, then you know what! I don't care about hurting your feelings. You were a bet. I wanted to use you to win a bet that I can date a nerd like you." He didn't even seem to care. He didn't care about a single hurtful word you just threw at him. What he did do, though, was completely knock you off your feet with his next words.
"I see..." He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes wandered around the room in thought. "I will date you."
Am I going insane? No, like actually. What the fuck is going on? This bitch sat here, unimpressed by every single thing you threw at him. Openly judged you and called you out, and now decided 'yeah, you know what, I will be your boyfriend'. Wait, what if that was his way of flirting? What if... what if he actually liked you all along and wanted you to ask him out? You huffed in realisation.
"Ha! I see, you just wanted me to ask you first. You did swoon when you first saw me and didn't want to show it. Awh, it's really-"
"No. I just have my own bet." He very quickly took your head out of the clouds and shut you right up. You looked at him as if he killed your whole family. Speechless. You were utterly speechless. Your lack of input, since you genuinely froze as if there was a virus in your software, allowed him to continue. "My friend thinks I can't get a girlfriend, so this works." You shook your head to snap out of your daze, in which you were calling him absolutely every swear word possible. You've got to be kidding me.
Your lips parted ever so slightly as you stared at him, your thoughts grinding to a complete halt. Of all the people on campus, out of the thousands of students dragging themselves through lectures and assignments, you had somehow sprinted into the one art studio occupied by the one painfully stereotypical nerd who also needed a fake relationship to win a bet. The coincidence was so absurd it irritated you further. It felt less like real life and more like the universe had grown bored, thrown the two of you into the same room for its own entertainment, and decided to sit back with popcorn. What's even worse is that you came to the conclusion you cannot stand him. You can't stand his smart-ass comments. Can't stand the way he speaks to you as if he's above you.
Yeah, you called him a stereotypical nerd, but that was only in looks. He looks like one, but he definitely acts as if he's further in the hierarchy than you are. "Actually, I changed my mind. I don't want to anymore. You're rude. I will just go and find someonel-" "I don't want to date you either. I like my life as it is, being a 'nerd' who sits in the art studio for too long." He frowned, closing his mouth, and you thought he was done but he quickly proved you wrong once again "And, if I decided I wanted a girlfriend, she wouldn't act like you. Sorry, not my type. But yeah, if you want to go find some other guy who will fawn over you, drop to his knees even, go use him. Go break some guy's heart; people like you do seem to enjoy doing that." You were about to throw a tantrum. Not a dignified one, either. A full-blown, dramatic, how-dare-you-say-that-to-me tantrum.
Your jaw dropped a fraction before snapping shut again, your lips pressing into such a thin line they almost disappeared. Heat rushed to your face with alarming speed, blooming across your cheeks and crawling all the way to the tips of your ears. You could actually feel your pulse pounding in your temples. You stood there, frozen, your fingers curling tightly around your own forearms until your nails bit through the fabric of your sleeves. Every comeback you'd ever perfected suddenly evaporated. Usually, by now, someone was apologising to you. Usually, you were the one walking away first.
People like you.
The words echoed around your head with infuriating clarity. People like you?
You'd known this man for all of ten minutes, and he'd somehow decided he had you figured out? The absolute... The... The audacity.
Who did this oversized-sweater-wearing, paint-covered, museum-haunting, emotionally constipated art gremlin think he was?
Your nostrils flared.
No. Absolutely not. You refused to let him have the last word. A humourless laugh escaped you as you uncrossed your arms with a sharp flick, planting your hands on your hips. "...Wow."
You gave a slow, almost mocking clap. "That was... incredibly judgemental for someone who also met me ten minutes ago."
He stared at you, shrugging, going back to dip his paintbrush in the oil paint next to him. In Nerd terms, it seemed he was dismissing you if you had nothing useful left to say. Your smile returned, but this one lacked all the polish of the previous ones. It was tight around the edges, strained, held together by nothing more than wounded pride. Pride told you to prove him wrong, to prove that you aren't like the other people he was speaking about. "Fine, you'll be my new boyfriend. Now give me your stupid phone."
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