The morning light had grown warmer, spilling into the kitchen like honey as I lounged on the counter, legs swinging slightly. I had claimed my throne—a.k.a. Johan’s countertop—draped in yesterday’s clothes and his shirt like some half-dressed prince of chaos.

Johan was by the window, speaking lowly into his phone. His voice was smooth, curt, professional. Something about scheduling and reports and shifting gear crates—nothing I cared to understand.

Still, I watched him.

The way his jaw ticked slightly when he was annoyed. The way he said “Umm” before ending a call—his version of goodbye, apparently.

Click.

The call ended.

And before he could even pocket his phone, I tilted my head and asked, voice sweet and far too dangerous for this early in the morning:

“Phi... do you like me yet?”

He turned slowly, sliding his phone into his pocket with deliberate calm. His gaze pinned me, unreadable as always.

Then he started walking toward me.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Until he was right in front of me—standing between my legs, eyes level with mine.

The air changed.

My throat went a little dry.

He brought his face closer to mine.

I could feel his breath fanning my face.

Dub dub dub

Is he going to kiss me?

Flick.

“Ow!” I flinched, rubbing my forehead with a scandalized gasp. “What was that for?!”

“Short brat,” he said lazily. “Get down. I’m taking you back to the dorm.”

Then, as if that was normal behavior, he turned and pulled his phone back out, typing something without even glancing at me again.

I stared at him in betrayal.

My mouth opened. Then closed.

I was—

Wounded.

Wounded.

“Mean,” I mumbled under my breath, lip jutting out into a dramatic pout that would have earned me an Oscar. “So mean.”

I hopped down, dusted off my pajamas, and grumbled the whole way to the door like a rejected stray cat.

Outside.

The sunlight was too bright.

And Johan was already unlocking the bike like the rude, heartless man he was.

I shuffled up behind him, still sulking.

“Phiii…” I whined.

He turned halfway to look at me, expression unreadable again.

“Phi,” I said again, this time softer—more careful. I twisted my fingers together and looked up at him through my lashes, the very picture of innocent mischief.

“Can we go on a date?”

No answer.

“Phiii…” I tried again, dragging the syllable out like it would summon his soul back into his body.

He stopped. Just barely.

I darted around him and stood in front of the bike, blocking his path with arms dramatically outstretched like some tiny human roadblock.

He raised an eyebrow. “Move.”

“No.”

Silence.

“Phi,” I said again, softer now, fidgeting with my fingers and refusing to meet his gaze directly. “Can we… go on a date?”

It was quiet for a second too long.

He looked at me—really looked this time. His eyes didn’t narrow or soften. Just stayed neutral, unreadable as always.

And then—

He tossed the helmet right into my arms again. Harder this time.

Asshole!

But I put the helmet on anyway.

To my surprise (and mild annoyance), we didn’t head toward the dorms. We took a lazy detour down the older part of the city, past small family-run shops and sleepy cafes just beginning to open.

Johan didn’t say a word the whole ride.

Not until we pulled up in front of a cozy little breakfast place nestled between two laundry shops. It had string lights still half-on, and only three tables outside.

“This is not the dorm,” I said, climbing off the bike and taking off the helmet with a suspicious squint.

He didn’t reply.

He just parked the bike and walked inside.

I followed like the obedient boy I was.

The café smelled like soy milk and fried garlic. There were old fans on the ceiling, and mismatched mugs hanging from hooks behind the counter.

Johan ordered without asking me what I wanted—rude, again—and we sat down at a table near the window, light filtering through the wooden blinds.

“I’m still taking this as a date,” I declared, taking a sip of the sweet iced soy milk he’d somehow known I liked.

“You’re wearing the same shirt from yesterday,” he said flatly, without looking up from his phone.

“I’m wearing your shirt,” I corrected, fluttering my lashes. “Technically, I’m showing loyalty.”

He gave me a tired look.

“You’re like a stray that won’t leave me alone.”

I grinned. “But a cute stray, right?”

He sighed and stirred his coffee slowly. “I should’ve left you on the couch.”

“But you didn’t.” I leaned in across the table. “You carried me like a princess. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

He didn’t even blink. “I dropped you on the bed like a sack of rice.”

“Liar.”

“You snored.”

“Defamation!”

Our food arrived—steaming plates of rice with minced pork, soft-fried eggs, and little bowls of chili fish sauce. I dug in with the enthusiasm of someone who’d burned all their brain cells the night before.

He ate slowly. Deliberately.

“You do like me,” I said between bites, not bothering to hide the rice on my cheek.

“No, I don’t.”

“You fed me.”

“I’m feeding you so you’ll stop talking.”

“You carried me to bed.”

“Because you were in the way.”

“You let me sleep in your shirt.”

“You drooled on it.”

I sat back and wiped my mouth smugly. “Still didn’t kick me out.”

He didn’t respond.

Just sipped his coffee.

But the corner of his mouth tugged. Just a little.

✿✿✿⁠ 

Johan pulled up outside the dorm building without saying a word.

He didn’t have to.

His fingers drummed on the handlebar once, like he was impatient to get rid of me. But I saw the way his eyes lingered a second longer than necessary—like he was making sure I got to the door safely.

Again.

“Thanks for the date,” I said, slipping the helmet off and smoothing down my wind-tossed hair.

He didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t.

So I leaned closer, resting one hand dramatically over my heart.

“Phi…” I said in a soft, theatrical whisper. “You’re so good to me.”

He looked up at me, unimpressed.

“You’re blocking the way.”

I grinned. “Say you’ll miss me.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

“I looked really cute sleeping.”

"No.”

With a cheeky wink, I hopped off the bike, tossed my hair, and made my grand exit—skipping my way up the stairs like a Disney character high on serotonin and black coffee.

I didn’t turn around.

(But I knew he was watching. Just a little.)

I reached the dorm room door, humming a little tune, feeling light as air.

Unlocked it. Stepped inside.

And immediately froze.

Because I was met with three death glares.

Easter had his arms crossed, eyebrows practically halfway to the ceiling. His foot was tapping like he was auditioning for Riverdance.

Dao was quiet—but his eyes scanned me up and down like a forensic detective in a crime drama. His gaze paused meaningfully on Johan’s oversized shirt still hanging off my frame.

Phoon was the worst.

He just sat there, calm, unblinking, disappointment radiating off him like heat from an open oven.

“North,” Easter began, voice sharp with drama. “You evil witch.”

I blinked. “I—what?”

“Where were you last night?” he demanded, hands flailing. “Do you have any idea how worried we were?! You weren’t answering calls! You disappeared right after the exam! I thought you got kidnapped!”

“You ghosted Nao and the gaming match,” Dao added helpfully, arms now folded too. “He was worried aswell. You ghosted everyone.”

Phoon said nothing.

Just raised an eyebrow and sipped from his cup of morning tea like a judgmental auntie.

I held up my hands. “Okay, okay, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down when you’re literally wearing his shirt,” Dao interrupted, gesturing dramatically at my outfit.

My eyes widened with fake innocence. “Whose shirt?”

“North.”

“Be specific. I know a lot of guys.”

“North.”

Phoon finally spoke. His voice was low. Measured.

“Were you with Johan?”

I paused.

Then smiled sweetly.

“I was around Johan.”

Easter let out a strangled gasp and collapsed back into the couch like the weight of my betrayal had physically crushed him.

Dao groaned. “God, you’re impossible.”

“He didn’t even text,” Phoon said pointedly.

“I was sleeping!” I protested. “He carried me to bed!”

“Wait- what??.” Easter sat up straight again.

I shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

Dao pinched the bridge of his nose. “A warning? A signal? A—something? So we didn’t spend the whole night thinking you got murdered and dumped in a canal?”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Okay, fair,” I said finally, rubbing the back of my neck. “I should’ve texted. Sorry. I forgot. He distracted me.”

Easter squinted. “With what?”

“Speed.”

Dao muttered a “Gross.”

Phoon just sighed saying “Not surprised.”

“Not like that—I mean literal speed. Like, we went to the race track. He let me ride with him.”

That earned a brief pause.

Even Phoon seemed vaguely impressed.

“He let you ride?” Dao echoed.

“He never lets anyone touch his bike,” Easter said suspiciously.

I beamed. “Exactly.”

Their expressions shifted—from judgment to mild shock to collective disbelief.

Dao sighed. “You're really getting under his skin.”

Easter groaned into a pillow.

And Phoon, after a long sip of tea, muttered, “You’re lucky he didn't kill you yet.”

I smiled like the cat who stole the king’s crown and got away with it.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He'll love me.”

They all groaned at once.

And I stretched out on the couch like a little demon prince, smug and content and very much in love.

_______________

Author's note-

I aspire to have the level of narcissism north have in this story. He knows he is a diva.