We both stand frozen as the deathly silence thickens, breathing in the panic living between the broomsticks and mops.
Of course, it's Edward.
Because why not? Why not have the literal senior prefect, the golden son of the student council, come knocking on the door while I'm stuck in here with a guy whose idea of subtlety is dragging people into supply closets?
If Edward finds out that I'm in here with Dominic, it might actually be over for me.
One word from him about this will filter its way to the headmistress who is practically best friends with my mum. This won't just result in me getting detention. My parents will probably get called in to discuss what I was potentially doing with a boy in the broom closet. How do you explain to your insane mother that your extracurriculars include hiding in closets with boys who practically radiate trouble?
"That's my friend," I hiss quietly.
Dominic silently presses his index finger to his lips again, urging me to shut up.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes so hard they dislocate.
"Guys?" Another firm knock. "Hello?"
Great, what has this idiot gotten me into?
I mouth, "You better have a good reason for this."
Dominic gives me a look that says, 'Just trust me.'
Which I absolutely do not.
"All good, mate." Dominic leans toward the door, his tone weirdly composed. "Just needed a moment. Door jammed."
I blink at him, stunned.
That lie rolled out with the swagger of someone who has lied in ten different languages.
Edward's voice filters in from outside, unsure but persistent. "Uh... okay then. Just checking because I heard screaming."
Dominic casts a glance my way, the kind that screams for help.
I respond with cold elegance: one sharp scoff and arms crossed so tight.
He's on his own.
Does he really think I'll step in to save him after he basically implied I was unattractive? Like I was a gremlin interrupting his perfect little life. Not to mention the shudder. He physically recoiled at the idea of being intimate with me. That insulting moment lives rent-free in my mind now.
And now he wants backup?
Cute.
I lean casually against the shelf of mop buckets, letting the silence speak for me. This mess? This whole thing of being discovered by the head boy in a broom closet? That's on him. He decided to go full secret agent, rudely dragging me in here. He can finish the mission solo. If he wants my help, he can start by crawling back with a proper apology. Maybe even a compliment. Like a good one. Something poetic and memorable.
Dominic glances around the closet, clearly scrambling for damage control.
And then—
He starts moaning.
Like, actual moaning.
The fake kind you would expect from a terrible actor.
My head snaps toward him so fast I am half convinced I have unlocked neck hyper speed. I stare at him with widened eyes, stunned. But Dominic keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the wall. Anywhere but me. The tips of his ears bloom with embarrassed pink, a traitorous blush spreading like roses on mortified cheeks.
Why is he moaning? Is this real life?
Did this closet turn into a performance theatre without warning?
And then, as if the cringe level wasn't already on life support, he mutters, "You can't come in here. I'm very busy with... a human."
A human.
Not even a name. Just... a generic human as if I am some vague carbon-based entity he's interacting with as part of a science experiment.
I blink at him, trying to gather my thoughts, but my brain has thrown in the towel and entered shutdown mode.
Dominic Lachowski, what fresh hell have you dragged me into?
There's a pause outside the door—a long, awkward silence that hangs like a slow-motion meteor.
Then Edward clears his throat loudly. The kind of sound that says, "I just walked into something weird and I don't know if I should call for backup or run".
"Uh... okay," he says again, voice uncertain but trying to stay polite. "If... whatever is happening in there could maybe wrap up soon that would be great. People need this cupboard for cleaning supplies."
Dominic, still committed to the most unhinged improv scene in history, lets out another exaggerated groan. "Five minutes," he calls out.
Five minutes?
My soul has left the building.
My voice cracks like a broken squeaky toy as I whip my gaze away from his ridiculous moaning session. I focus on the shelf of chemicals next to us, praying for divine distraction. Is that hydrochloric acid? Suddenly the school sanctioned solvents seem more comforting than whatever performance art Dominic is trying to pull.
I feel his stare before I even look and reluctantly, I meet his gaze.
"You have to moan," he whispers.
I blink. "What?"
"You have to moan like a girl," he hisses, looking at me seriously. "So he thinks I'm in here with someone. It's the only way to make him leave."
My brain stutters. "Are you actually insane?"
He leans in urgently. "Just do it."
"No."
"Do it before he opens the door and finds you in here with me!"
Oh my god.
He wants me to fake a random moan in a broom closet so Edward can peace out thinking Dominic is in here with some mystery lover. Do I look like someone born to be a theatre kid? But the panic in his voice makes one thing clear: he has committed to this bit entirely. And now I am either playing along or explaining to my friend why we are loitering in darkness together.
I take a deep breath.
If I lose the last fragments of my dignity, Dominic is going down with me.
I mentally bid farewell to the last bits of self-respect I still possess.
"I swear to everything sacred," I mutter under my breath.
Dominic is still staring expectantly like he truly believes this is a completely rational solution to a minor social dilemma.
"Hello?" Edward calls from the other side of the door.
Dominic gestures subtly toward the door and mouths "Now!"
So I do it.
The worst sound in existence slips out of me—a weird sigh mixed with a wheeze, vaguely reminiscent of a dying balloon. It sounds a bit too high pitched. Offbeat and entirely cursed. If Edward is still standing on the other side, he probably thinks someone is being attacked by a goose.
Dominic stares at me in disbelief. "What the fuck was that?"
Face burning like a furnace on full blast, I shrug and bashfully avert my gaze.
The dead silence outside is our only response.
Then a very awkward shuffle of footsteps.
"Just keep it respectful," Edward says finally, voice uncertain and probably traumatised. "This is still a school after all. Just... yeah. Handle whatever this is quickly."
And then he walks off.
I collapse against a shelf of mop buckets, my brain a twisted ball of humiliation.
"Keep it respectful?" I echo under my breath. "Great, now Edward thinks I...?"
"He doesn't know it was you." Dominic finally looks at me, deadpan. "I saved us."
"By moaning like a bad actor in a soap opera?"
He shrugs, unbothered. "Worked, didn't it?"
"I feel spiritually unclean," I mumble. "Like I should take a bath in sage."
Dominic finally drops the theatrics. "Now we can finally talk."
I shake my head, blinking away the peculiar situation.
Dominic faces leans against the wall while staring at me. His gaze is searching, trying to knock down whatever obstacle is in his way of figuring me out.
"Why did you drag me in here?"
He blinks at my question.
I fold my arms over my chest. After a few seconds have passed, I give him an expectant look. "Did you drag me in here to stare at me?"
He still remains silent for a while, as if trying to figure me out until he decides that the feat is too difficult. So he resorts to rummaging inside his bag, pulling something out.
When he reveals it to me, a surprised gasp escapes my lips.
My... sketchbook.
"I believe this belongs to you," he says, the side of his lip quirking up slightly.
Later that day, I leave the school premises with a deep scowl on my face that betrays my mood. I try my utmost to refrain from glaring at every person walking past me. They have done nothing to warrant receiving venomous stares.
With every stomp on the ground, I conclude that today has undoubtedly been the worst Tuesday of my life. And that is saying something, considering I have had vomit on me on a prior Tuesday.
Savannah, who isn't particularly fond of me, chose to throw up all over the closest thing when illness befell her. Unfortunately, that thing was me. That entire day, the only garments available for me to wear were from the lost and found. Stale and reeking, leaving an unwelcome odour on my person.
That was how I became the joke of the day, the joke of Tuesday.
Come to think of it, having sick on me actually sounds worse so I'm just gonna go right ahead and retract my statement.
Today, though, I have to say, wasn't one of the best days I've had.
I was late for my last period.
Mr. Yoon, my foreign language teacher, actually gave me a demerit for being late to his class.
He doesn't normally do that; he would rather embarrass you in front of the class by making you have a conversation with him in Korean.
I can't blame anyone for this.
Except for that good for nothing prick called Dominic.
He should be congratulated for ruining this day for me. I mean, it's really difficult for someone to ruin a day for me. Even Savannah can't keep me sour for a long time, but he just... he ruined my perfect record. It may sound like I'm overreacting, but my mum will kill me if she finds out about this.
To think that my once clean record has now been dented...
He's the one who did this to me.
Couldn't he have waited until after school to show me the leverage he has over my head?
No, he had to drag me inside a closet, almost get me caught by the senior prefect who is also my crush and show me that damn sketchbook. The sketchbook that contains the many sketches I have of Edward.
In the closet, he said that we should meet up in the parking lot to apparently talk so that is where I'm going right now.
I probably missed the earliest bus by now, but I need to get my sketchbook back and the only way to do that is to find out what he wants from me.
"Seong Jin," someone calls, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I turn around to see Taylor running up to me.
She's in her football kit which consists of dark blue loose shorts with a sleeveless t-shirt. Her dark brown braids are tied up in a neat ponytail.
"Hey," she says with a bright grin.
"What's up?"
"So Edward asked almost everyone in the school, but none of them have owned up to having your sketchbook."
"Oh, that." I wave a dismissive hand. "No, I already found it."
She blinks at me slowly. Eventually, after the shock has worn off, she replies with, "Oh, that's great."
"Isn't it?"
She nods with a stiff smile which immediately reveals that she might be fuming deep down.
"I mean, now I can keep my dirty, little secrets to myself."
"So what?" She lifts a shoulder enquiringly and adds, "Did it maybe slip your mind that the two of us were running up and down looking for your beloved piece of shit sketchbook?"
"Hey, don't call my sketchbook that," I reprimand in jest.
"Seong Jin, I'm serious," she states, not the slightest bit amused at my response.
"Who said I'm not?"
"My boyfriend has been running up and down this stupid school, talking to all these pubescent freaks to find your precious, crush-filled sketchbook and now you're going to tell me that you've found it like it's no big deal?"
"Careful, those pubescent freaks are still your peers, Taylor," I scold playfully.
She doesn't even crack a smile.
"I mean, to be fair, I only found it during the last period so even if I did tell you, it wouldn't have made that much of a difference."
Her scathing stare remains on me.
A sigh of defeat leaves my mouth.
I shuffle awkwardly, tugging at the hem of my jacket like it might protect me from her laser beam glare. I will never win this battle. Not when she's looking at me like that.
"Okay, I'm sorry. I should have sent you or Edward a text when I found it..." my voice dips to a mumble for the rest. "...even if it was the last period."
She still stares at me with narrowed eyes, majestically disappointed.
I tilt my head and puff out my cheeks, blinking innocently like a kitten trying to charm its way out of a paper bag. "Forgiveness?"
She groans, tossing her hands up like the drama is too much even for her. "Fine. Forgiveness. Just stop making that face, you're gonna scare off every potential boyfriend in a five mile radius."
I snort. "You already have a boyfriend."
"I meant you, mate."
"Oh, sorry to disappoint but," I raise my brows, "I don't roll that way, sweetheart. I'm like... aggressively straight."
"Stop screwing around." She narrows her eyes, smacking my arm. "Honestly, are you ever going to get over the fact that you got rejected by three guys?"
I raise a finger. "Three guys in a row, Taylor."
She winces, then nods like she has just remembered how tragic that timeline was. "Okay, but none of them were good for you."
"Uh-huh."
"Seriously. Dominic is a certified prick, Michael radiates walking STD energy, and James," she trails off, "honestly not sure if the guy is even conscious of the fact that he is alive. Like, does he know he exists?"
"Pretty sure he doesn't. I mean when I confessed to him, he called me bro and said he enjoys living in the closet."
Taylor scrunches her nose. "That is so... weird."
I shake my head in disbelief. "I know, right?"
"Well, back to business," Taylor says with the command of someone plotting a hostile takeover. "Operation: Get Seong Jin a Boyfriend."
"Taylor, no," I groan, throwing my head back like this conversation is physically painful. "Seong Jin does not need a boyfriend. Seong Jin is perfectly content without one. See?"
To prove it, I stretch my lips into the brightest, most cartoonishly cheerful grin I can manage. I probably look like a toothpaste commercial.
She squints at me, unimpressed. "Lies."
My smile drops.
"That smile," she says dramatically, her voice dipping into therapist mode, "is clearly fake. I know a mask of misery when I see one. You're hiding your inner turmoil, my little halfling."
I recoil instantly. "Stop calling me that."
But the damage is done.
My nose wrinkles on instinct—the automatic reaction to a nickname forged in friendship torment. Ever since Analys discovered my shoe size was a measly seven, she crowned me the designated child of the group. Taylor jumped on the bandwagon immediately, and thus, the little halfling era began.
They knew it annoyed me which, naturally, made it fun for them.
Taylor clasps her hands like she's about to deliver a sermon. Her voice takes on that persuasive tone she usually reserves for convincing the canteen staff to give her extra chips.
"Seong Jin, everyone needs a loving companion to guide them through the final descent into the flaming pit that is secondary school."
"Not true."
"And you, dear friend," she steamrolls forward, "are currently sitting at the top of my matchmaking list. You need a relationship."
"Again. Not true."
She narrows her eyes with faux pity. "You know, people are starting to assume you're straight."
I shrug, trying not to give her the satisfaction. "I don't mind."
"Oh, but you should," she insists, eyes locked on mine earnestly. Her hand lands on my shoulder dramatically. "Probably why James said he loves living in the closet. Your gay levels were unreadable. He probably thought you were giving... little brother energy."
I groan. "That's not true at all."
Taylor, of course, does not hear that. She's already rubbing her hands together like Cupid armed with chaotic intent. I brace myself. She has shifted gears from casual meddling to full matchmaking mode, and escaping is going to require strategy, speed or maybe fake tears.
I manage not to roll my eyes, but it takes restraint.
The truth is, her obsession with pairing me off began the minute Edward became her loving companion. Since then, she has been convinced that no one—especially me—should suffer the alleged agony of singlehood. Apparently, I radiate tragic loneliness, and now she's determined to fix that with reckless enthusiasm.
If she knew half the stuff in my sketchbook, she would probably launch a bigger dating campaign to get my focus off her boyfriend.
Taylor lets out a pleased hum—one of those smug little noises that means she is cooking up chaos.
My thoughts scatter and I blink, suddenly yanked back into reality.
She's staring across the car park with dangerous intent, eyes glittering mischievously. There is a pause long enough to build suspense and then her finger slowly lifts as if she's unveiling a masterpiece.
My stomach flips nervously.
I follow the line of her finger, mentally bracing myself.
Christian Bartell?
There he is, standing alone beside a sportscar, polishing his foggy glasses. He glances around nervously, probably waiting for someone or debating whether he should leave.
I squint at him, unimpressed. "Seriously?"
Taylor spins to face me, eyebrows raised, excitement practically vibrating off her face. "Okay, hear me out. I know you think he's too geeky, but I genuinely think he's perfect for you."
"Oh really?"
"He's really smart," she begins, counting off on her fingers. "Which means shared brainpower. You two could talk about like... algebraic mechanics or chemical geometry or whatever nerd magic you like, and neither of you would zone out or immediately start drooling."
"Right, but—"
"He's also painfully lowkey so you wouldn't have to deal with high maintenance drama or popularity politics like you did with Savannah. He's so off-radar, he's practically subterranean."
"Taylor..."
"And his fashion sense is aggressively weird like yours, which gives you the perfect excuse to overhaul his wardrobe. Relationship bonding and a makeover?"
We both glance back at Christian. He's wearing a maroon plaid turtleneck sweater. In July.
Taylor wrinkles her nose.
I frown. "Let the boy wear what he wants. Maybe he likes the feeling of warm suffocation. I mean, some people wear black hoodies year round. Some of us hate shorts. Others embrace bottlenecks like emotional support."
She smirks and leans in, whispering, "Deep down, I think he's into BDSM. That bottleneck screams 'daily choking ritual'."
I blink at her. "Taylor. What."
"I'm just saying."
"That's nice and all, but I think you're forgetting something kind of vital," I mutter, redirecting her attention with a pointed stare. "Christian Bartell already has a boyfriend."
Silence.
Then her jaw drops like I just told her her dog was running for prime minister. "What?"
"Yep."
"Oh, please," she says, dripping in sarcasm. "I'd definitely know if someone like Christian was dating anyone. I'm practically the ears of Mossbourne. I'm like the gossip monger general of this whole establishment."
I arch a brow. "That's... not a good thing."
"It is," she fires back.
"It's not."
"Is."
"Still no."
But she has already tuned out of our little semantic spat. Her eyes have lock onto something—or rather, someone—across the car park, pupils dilating like a camera zooming in for drama.
I follow her gaze and grin when I see what she's staring at.
Christian Bartell, still wiping his foggy lenses, is suddenly approached by a guy. One confident tap on the shoulder later, he lights up with a beam so radiant I swear someone cued romantic theme music. His boyfriend wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him close, and Christian leans in without hesitation.
I flick my eyes back to Taylor.
She's doing her best imitation of the surprised Pikachu meme, jaw dropped and eyes wide as saucers.
"See?" I motion toward them.
"I mean... I'm sure they're just friends," she mumbles, but her voice lacks the conviction it usually packs.
I say nothing. Just watch as she squints like she's trying to decode a test question.
Then her voice spikes. "Wait. Is that Riley?"
I offer a slow, confirming nod.
Her face contorts with mounting confusion. "Since when does Riley hang out with Christian?"
"Since they started dating."
She blinks. "Riley's gay?"
Her outburst echoes louder than intended, but thankfully, the surrounding student chaos shields us from any mortifying attention. Cars honk and groups disperse, and somehow, no one clocks her little moment.
I tilt my head. "What made you think he wasn't?"
"Well... he plays football."
I stare at her. Just stare.
Then I pat her head like she's a well-meaning but misguided puppy. "Ah yes. Because football is strictly reserved for heterosexuals, my little wombat."
She swats at my hand. "Don't patronise me."
I exhale as if releasing years of pent up secondhand embarrassment. "Taylor, seriously. I don't need a boyfriend. I'm functioning perfectly fine on my own. Sixteen years of being single and I'm still miraculously standing. I think I can survive one more."
She squints at me like I have just said something deeply blasphemous. "I fail to see your reasoning."
I gesture dramatically, arms wide. "Because I want to get through school, snag six distinctions minimum and then jet off to university where a hot Japanese guy with a voice like honey dipped in gravel sweeps me off my feet."
Taylor groans like she's being physically assaulted by my fantasy. "Why are you so obsessed with this Japanese guy theory?"
I raise a finger, dead serious. "It's not about the Japanese guy, Taylor. It's the voice. The deep voice. The kind of voice that spells read me a bedtime story and cure my insomnia."
She gives me the slowest blink in history before tilting her head, visibly debating if I'm a lost cause. "You are so daft, Seong Jin."
I shrug.
Taylor flicks her hair with the flair. "Anyway, you owe me. Big time."
I blink. "Owe you... for what exactly?"
She scoffs. "I went full search party mode for your sketchbook. I had to talk to strangers, Seong Jin. Strangers. Do you have any idea how exhausting that is for someone like me? The emotional labour alone. You owe me a solid. Minimum one."
I cross my arms. "Yeah, pretty sure that's not how friendship works, mate. Also, what do your sacred little precepts say about guilt-tripping your friends into stuff? Pretty sure Buddha wouldn't approve."
Taylor narrows her eyes, affronted. "And this is exactly why I know you don't listen to me. Where in the five precepts does it say anything about guilt-tripping friends?"
I squint and ask sheepishly, "Wait, what are the five again?"
She straightens like a nun delivering morning prayer. "Listen and listen well," she commands, pointing two fingers to her own lips and then mine, making this weird eye contact ritual feel like a vow ceremony.
I, of course, do the mature thing and nod like a bobblehead.
She holds up her hand and folds down each finger down as she lists, "One, abstain from killing living beings. Two, abstain from stealing. Three, abstain from having lustful pleasures with multiple people at the same time. Four, do not lie. Five, refrain from using drugs or alcohol as they cloud the mind."
"Well, I mean, you've already broken three of those precepts," I point out.
A loud gasp leaves her mouth and she stares at me like she's insulted. "How dare you accuse me of such an atrocity? When have I ever broken my precepts?"
"Uh, you've definitely stolen something before."
"I have never stolen anything in my life, mate." When she declares that.
I stare at her flatly.
"When?"
"In year four you literally took that glitter glue from Jodie's pencil case."
"Okay," she mutters, "so we counting crimes from when I was practically a toddler?"
"Yeah."
She sighs. "Childhood crimes don't count."
"What about the drugs you take?"
"You mean my Adderall?" she snaps, defensive fire in her eyes. "That's prescribed, thank you very much. And let me remind you, the precept says drugs that cloud the mind. Adderall does the fucking opposite. It unclouds my brain and helps me focus."
"Right, totally," I say, barely holding back laughter. "Now explain the orgy from last week."
Her face glitches. "Okay just shut the fuck up, Seong Jin."
I burst out laughing, nearly toppling over.
Taylor glares, but the corners of her mouth are twitching. "You're insufferable."
"And yet, you stick around me."
Taylor swings back and forth on her heels. "Anyway, you are coming to one of my football games, right?"
I groan like she's just asked me to eat a bowl of gravel.
She clasps her hands in front of her chest. "Please."
"Can't you ask for something less painful?"
"No, want you at my football game. I obviously need your expert criticism. Ever since you ghosted my sideline, my ball game has been in a tragic slump. I need growth, Seong Jin. And you, apparently, are my fertilizer."
I squint. "Honestly? My advice. Just quit. Football is for losers."
"Football is not for losers," she snaps. "You're coming. That's final."
"No, I genuinely hate attending your games," I say earnestly. "Especially with Savannah around. She hates my guts."
"Vannah doesn't hate you."
I raise a brow. "I'm sorry, you were there when Vannah threw up on me, right? Does that scream fondness to you?"
"Wait, are you actually still hung up on that?"
"Yes, Taylor."
"She was sick!"
"And conveniently," I say, waving a finger as if connecting the dots, "she was standing next to me, her designated arch nemesis, while she felt like projectile vomiting."
"Yes!" she insists, as if I'm being irrational.
"You know what, fine. Everyone thinks she was too sick to sprint to the toilet and puke her insides out or... you know, maybe not vomit on me. The ground has always been an option, just saying."
Taylor rolls her eyes.
I sigh. "Can you explain why she split that can of Coke in my hair when I actually came to watch your football game?"
"You told her we sucked."
"To be fair, Taylor," I say, pausing dramatically, "you guys did suck."
She punches my shoulder, not exactly softly.
"Ow!" I flinch, stepping away from her to rub the spot. "Taylor, you guys lost twenty-one to three. That's not even football anymore. You guys might need some team building exercises."
"Whatever," she mutters, arms crossed and hip cocked. "I mean, why don't you train us again? Maybe then we wouldn't suck so bad."
"So you want me to show up, give advice, and endure Savannah's signature glare? The one that looks like I let a kitten and a puppy fight in a coliseum?" I muse incredulously. "Tempting, but I think I'll pass."
"You suck cheese balls," she grumbles. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow. Gotta go to practice."
"Have fun!"
She pulls a face and after giving me a casual fist bump, she jogs back towards the building without even looking back.
Taylor disappears around the corner, her ponytail catching one last flick of sunlight before vanishing from sight.
The moment barely has time to breathe when the side door creaks open again and out step Edward and Damien.
Of course.
Edward is still in his sports kit. Blue swim trunks, loose white tee that clings to him just enough to hint at muscle, and goggles dangling from his index finger.
He walks with purpose, that clipped stride that says he's mentally somewhere—anywhere but here, really. Damien is talking at full volume, hands gesturing wildly as some passionate speech pours from his mouth. Edward has tuned out, nodding every few seconds as if contractually obligated to keep up the illusion of interest.
My gaze lingers longer than necessary.
I know I shouldn't be watching this closely. But there is something about Edward that keeps my attention locked. A soft grin curls at the corner of my mouth. A whisper of affection.
They don't notice me.
Not Damien, who is busy lecturing the air.
Not Edward, who thankfully doesn't catch my moment of silent admiration.
I look away before my gaze turns to glue.
Time to shift focus.
The sketchbook.
Dominic promised answers. Hopefully, he has turned over a new leaf of empathy and conscientiousness and will hand it over without a fuss. Either way, I'm getting it back.
And if he refuses?
I might have to be the one to drag him into another closet.
Metaphorically.
Mostly.