You told yourself it was only a matter of convenience. A very functional distraction to make surviving the next semester of your time spent at KISS marginally less excruciating. Min Ho Moon was practically a red flag with a set of finely tailored Dior drapes tossed over its shoulder, after all; an ego with a thorough skin care regimen. He's vainglorious, a consummate drama queen, so enamored with himself, in fact, you can't help but wonder whether he charges folks for staring.

He was supposed to be something you could just kick whenever you got bored. Trouble is, though? Min Ho refuses to fit comfortably into the compartmentalized little box you built for him.

Every time you try telling yourself he's just an entitled rich boy, he has to wreck every bit of narrative sense you've been able to scrounge up on him. Like when he tips his head back, letting out a honest-to-god ugly-snort of laughter at some half-hearted insult you'd mumbled into his ear apropos one of your teachers. Then there were the times he'd show up at your door uninvited, shoving an unassuming plastic bag full of your preferred cheapass convenience store fare into the middle of your chest.

"Your diet is fucking tragic", Min Ho had complained, scrunching up his face and refusing to meet your eyes as he slapped the bag again. "But, hey... If you're gonna poison yourself anyway, guess I'll be indulgent."

It's not serious. That is the mantra. Which takes turns repeating itself loudly within your head everytime he grabs your wrist the hallway, pulling you into some crammed, stale supply closet just so he can lean you up against the shelving and swallow down complaints. Definitely not serious, you assure yourself, when you wake up to check your phone and see the screen illuminate at 3:17 AM with only two glaringly stupid words lit up with text: 'u up?'

Except, it gets harder to believe the lie when you're in his bed and he's sliding under the covers of his ridiculously expensive silk sheets like the space beside you belongs to him by right. It's the quiet times that get you, though. How his perfectly moussed hair starts to lose its heavy product structure and fan out against the pillow. How he leans his face against your shoulder blade while he's asleep and mumbles some sleepy, nonsensical something something against the bare skin on the back of your neck that you pretend not to hear because you can't cope with the crushing weight of it.

Which means right now, this is super dangerous.

Morning sunlight is just beginning to bleed over the top of the blinds, painting harsh, angular lines over the floor of his room. Min Ho is wide awake and propped up on his elbow, the blanket pooled around his waist in a way that shows way too much bare skin. He has the unmistakable faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, the one he uses when he is trying really, really hard to look unbothered. Like he's not asking a question that might totally upend whatever it is you're doing.

"So..." he says in a voice that's a little gravelly with sleep, while he stares intently at what looks like a stray thread of lint on the mattress. "What are we, exactly?"

All of the oxygen gets sucked right out of the room. He asks it so offhandedly, like he is asking for your opinion on a pair of shoes.