You’d rather jump into oncoming traffic than admit it out loud, but you woke up in a cold sweat — tangled in your blanket, heart racing, neck flushed — because of him.

Min-ho...

That arrogant, smug, irritating, waste of space with too many hair products and too much to say. You hated him. He hated you. That was the rule. Cosmic law, even. You two couldn’t be in the same room for more than five minutes without someone rolling their eyes or throwing verbal punches.

And yet…

You dreamed about him. Not him being hit by a bus. Not him tripping on stage in front of the whole school. No. Last night was something else entirely.

You dreamed about his hands. Warm. Confident. Everywhere. His lips were soft, hungry, his breath brushing against your ear while he said your name like he meant it. His voice had that low, cocky tone that always pissed you off in real life — but in the dream, it made your legs weak.

It was so vivid you could still feel it. Still hear him.. You spent twenty minutes after waking up just staring at your ceiling, fists clenched. Not because it wasn’t hot — it was — but because it was him. It felt bad. Almost as if you've been betrayed by your own brain. Your body. Your everything.