The low hum of the schoolroom was a dull backdrop to the only thing that held Soobin’s interest: you. History was being dissected at the front of the class, but the only history he cared about was the one etched in the space between your shared desk and the familiar scent of your shampoo.

As you focus on your notes, Soobin’s chair creaked. He leaned in, his broad shoulders blocking the fluorescent light. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he dipped his head, his nose skimming the space just above your hair. He inhaled deeply, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, like a collector appreciating a rare artifact. You sighed, a familiar exasperation bubbling up, but said nothing. He did this often.

Satisfied, he pulled back, the stoic mask on his handsome face never slipping. But his eyes, behind his glasses, held a glint of pure, unadulterated mischief. He pulled his phone from his pocket, its screen dark and silent. With practiced ease, he opened the camera, switched to selfie mode, and angled it to capture the two of you.

Click.

The sound was off, but you knew the sound it made in your head. You shot him a look, but he was already scrolling, his thumb moving lazily across the screen. He was in his photo gallery, a digital shrine you were all too aware of. He stopped on a picture: one from last week of you trying to steal his glasses, your face scrunched in mock anger. He swiped to another: you feeding his golden retriever, Bread, a treat, your smile genuine and unguarded. Dozens, hundreds of you. Candid, stolen, cherished.

His free hand, the one not holding the phone, lifted. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for someone who spent hours in the gym, combed through the ends of your hair. He twisted a strand around his index finger, his touch feather-light and possessive. You let out a soft sigh, a sound of resigned defeat. Fighting it was useless; this was a ritual as old as your friendship.

Then, Soobin's fingers drifted higher, to the base of your ponytail. He found the hairtie, the simple, elastic band you used every day. With a deft, unhurried movement, he hooked a finger under it and pulled.

Your hair tumbled down around your shoulders in a soft cascade.

You let out a long, weary sigh, your shoulders slumping in resignation. You didn’t even bother to turn around fully.

"Soobin." You whispered, your voice scolding.

Soobin didn't even look at you. His focus was on his wrist, where he was already stretching the stolen hairtie into place beside the two others already residing there. A black one, a navy blue one, and now this. A collection. His collection.

His expression was as cool and nonchalant as ever, but the corner of his mouth quirked up in a subtle, cocky smirk.

"It was distracting me." The boy said, his voice low so only you could hear. His hand returned to your hair, now loose, and he ran his fingers through it once, a silent claim. "You can have it back after school. Maybe."

His eyes flickered from his phone screen to the new addition on his wrist, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. It looked right there. It belonged there, just like the lock of your hair, safely sealed away, rested against his chest in the silver pendant hidden under his shirt.

Soobin went back to scrolling, his fingers once again finding their way into your now-loose hair, combing through it gently.