I sat alone on the weathered bench beside the university football field, the late afternoon sun casting golden stripes through the trees. In my hands, I cradled a warm lunch box - still steaming slightly through the lid, carefully wrapped with a cloth I'd chosen just for him. Basil fried chicken.

After what happened yesterday - the bed scene, the shirt, the breathlessness, the chaos - I would be lying if I said my hands weren't trembling just a little.

I stared at the field, chewing anxiously on my bottom lip as Johan sprinted across it, sweat-slick and godlike, yelling orders to his teammates like some fallen general of Olympus.

He was frustrating. Maddening. Rude. Cruel. Cold.

And somehow, I couldn't stay away.

"Nong."

The voice made me flinch.

I turned, blinking up at the source.

Oh no. Not again.

"P'Pran..." I said, forcing a polite smile as he settled himself next to me on the bench, a little too close for comfort.

"You're sitting here all alone?" he asked, offering me a warm smile - the kind that was soft and harmless and totally not my type.

"Umm... yeah," I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with that signature shy smile I'd mastered over years of survival.

Pran's gaze lingered. Too long. His eyes sparkled like he was staring at a piece of art instead of a person. Why couldn't Johan ever look at me like that?

"I, uh..." Pran cleared his throat awkwardly. "Do you think... maybe you could give me your Line ID?"

Oh fuck no.

I blinked. My soul was already halfway across the field. This was not part of the plan. I shifted in place, nervously brushing my bangs away, trying to buy time - but his hopeful gaze only intensified.

Still, I had manners. So I handed him my phone with an apologetic smile.

But before he could even touch it, a hand snatched it from mid-air.

Snatched.

I looked up fast, breath catching.

"P'Johan..." I said, nearly stumbling to my feet as he stood between me and Pran like a very tall, very pissed-off brick wall.

He looked furious.

"Do you mind?" he said, voice sharp as a blade. "This is our team's bench. Can you like fuck off somewhere else?"

Pran mumbled something under his breath, shooting me one last look before awkwardly walking away.

I stood frozen.

What the hell was wrong with him now?

But I composed myself, smoothing down my shirt, and forced a smile. "Phi Jo..."

He turned to look at me - really looked at me - and I instantly regretted opening my mouth.

His face was unreadable but there was something in his eyes today. He looked like a storm about to hit land. Dangerous. Intense.

Maybe I should back off. Maybe I should drop the whole make him fall in love thing and protect whatever was left of my fragile ego.

But then again, it was already too late to walk away.

"I... I cooked basil fried chicken for you today," I said softly, my voice trembling. "I'm not sure if you like it but... I thought of you when I made it."

He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. But after a tense moment, he harshly snatched the lunchbox from my hands and plopped down on the bench like he hadn't just emotionally manhandled me with one look.

Silence.

He opened the box and started eating without a word.

I blinked. Wait... is he seriously just going to eat in silence after all that?

I stood awkwardly, unsure if I was supposed to leave or vanish or dig a hole and lie in it.

Then he grumbled, without even looking at me, "Are you gonna stand the whole time?"

"Oh-uh, no, phi." I fumbled, eyes darting around for space.

Without a word, he shifted slightly, making just enough room beside him for me to sit.

"Sit," he muttered.

I obeyed instantly, settling beside him, careful not to touch.

The silence stretched as he kept eating. I stared at the way he held his chopsticks - strong fingers, veiny arms, his sleeves pushed up just enough to show a bit of skin and sweat.

God, I was pathetic.

"Uh... phi?" I said quietly. "My phone... you kinda, um... put it in your pocket."

He shot me a sharp look, the muscle in his jaw twitching. I got the message loud and clear. Not now.

"Right. Not important," I mumbled quickly, folding my hands in my lap. Is he on his periods today?

He continued eating.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

He didn't complain.

He didn't make a face.

He didn't even throw the lunch away.

I wanted to ask if he liked it. If it reminded him of home. If he noticed the way the basil was extra crisp or how I'd cooked the chicken three different times to get the texture right.

Even Mae had gotten exhausted from my perfectionism.

But I stayed quiet.

Just being here felt like a win.

Eventually, he let out a low sigh, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb before tossing the empty container onto the bench.

"That was okay," he muttered.

I blinked.

Okay?

My heart did a dumb little flip anyway.

"I'm glad," I said softly, barely containing my smile.

He gave me a side glance.

"Stop smiling like that."

"Like what?" I said, blinking innocently.

"Like you just won the lottery."

I turned my face away, trying to hide the blush burning up my neck.

But inside?

Inside I was screaming.

Because he ate it.

And he didn't throw it away.

And he told me to sit.

I'd take this as a win.

Even if his love language was currently somewhere between verbal assault and emotional whiplash.

As Johan leaned back on the bench, arms stretched behind him like some shirtless Greek statue in a university sports jersey, I cleared my throat.

He didn't look at me.

I tried again. "Um... Phi."

Still nothing.

I leaned in slightly, keeping my voice soft. "My phone?"

His eyes finally slid to me. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then let out a low hum - the sound practically dripping with menace. "Oh, that?"

He patted his pocket with deliberate slowness. "Yeah. I've got it."

I waited for him to hand it over.

He didn't.

Instead, he pulled it from his pocket... looked at the screen... and then smirked. "What even is this wallpaper? Hello Kitty on steroids?"

"That's a lucky cat from my grandma's temple," I said defensively, snatching for it.

He pulled it away.

I blinked.

"Phi...?" I said, trying again, reaching for the phone.

He raised his arm, holding it just above his head.

Which would have been fine...

If his damn arm span wasn't twice the length of my soul.

"Take it, if you want it," he said, eyes sparkling with challenge.

My soul visibly left my body.

This tall, ego-driven man was really out here playing tease the short brat like it was a sport.

Inside, I was cursing him, his ancestors, and the absolute audacity of his genetics.

You six-foot-something gorilla. You long-limbed demon. I hope you step on a LEGO barefoot, you abs-possessing bastard.

But on the outside?

I smiled.

That sweet, adorable, award-winning smile that screamed North the Angel of Faculty of Engineering.

"Phi Jo," I cooed gently, placing my hands on his knee as I leaned in closer. "Can I please have it back? Pretty please?"

He didn't move.

In fact, he looked amused.

"Sawadee krub, acting major," he said dryly.

I stood up, reaching again - tiptoeing slightly as my hand flailed above his shoulder, trying to snatch the phone.

He chuckled.

Actually chuckled.

"I swear," I muttered under my breath, still reaching, "I'm going to poison your basil next time."

"Didn't catch that," he said lazily, tilting his arm higher.

The bastard.

Now he was full-on enjoying this.

"Phi, come on-!" I whined, trying again, practically climbing onto the bench beside him. My fingers grazed the phone but he yanked it away again.

"You really want it?" he said.

"Yes," I huffed.

He looked at me for a long second.

Then, to my surprise, he unlocked it - and opened the Contacts app.

"What are you doing?" I asked, eyes narrowing.

"Adding myself," he said coolly.

"Wait what?"

He didn't respond. He just typed something in and then hit "Call."

I heard his phone ring a moment later from his bag.

Then he looked at me - smug, relaxed - and handed my phone back without ceremony.

"You can save me as whatever you want shorty."

I looked down at the screen. His name was now saved on my phone as:

P'Johan (Do Not Call Unless Emergency)

I stared.

"I didn't save that," I mumbled, blinking.

"I did," he said with a smirk, slinging his bag over his shoulder and standing up. "You'll call eventually."

Then he walked off toward the locker rooms, shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked back, as if he hadn't just tormented me into a hormone-induced stroke.

I stared at the contact name again.

P'Johan (Do Not Call Unless Emergency)

God help me.

Because I would absolutely still call.