No Need For Words
The first time you meet him, he almost kills you.
One moment you’re walking across the college campus, no easy task considering how you’re balancing a water bottle, a heavy laptop, several books and a file of music sheets and the strong wind is buffeting your slight frame, when a slick of red and black flashes across your vision and a sharp pain in your leg just above your knee makes you crumple to the ground.
You hear the distinctive screeching of brakes and look up, hand instinctively clutching your leg, to see a huge black and red motorcycle come to a halt a few feet away and its rider get off, pulling his helmet off and almost flinging it aside as he runs to you, stammering apologies.
He crouches down next to you, asking solicitous questions in a deep husky voice - “Are you all right? Where does it hurt?” - and without even waiting for you to reply he reaches out and runs his hands, encased in black leather fingerless gloves, down your leg, and you hold your breath as this stranger checks if you’re ok, wondering if you should flinch, or pull away, or stop him, but he’s so careful and gentle that you relax.
He ascertains that you have nothing more than a bruise and apologises profusely again before helping you to your feet and brushing grit from the road off the seat of your jeans and the back of your thighs, and you blush and thank him.
He helps you gather your things on the ground, then tosses you a smile and reaches out to ruffle your hair and pat your cheek lightly, and it’s then that you notice how his hair, curling softly over the collar of his red biker’s jacket, glows almost golden in the late afternoon sunlight and his eyes, rimmed in black, are large and long and beautiful.
He gets back on his bike, revs it up, and zooms off like a maniac (apparently knocking you down didn’t teach him anything), while you stand and stare after him until he’s a mere red dot in the distance and you recover yourself enough to start walking towards the music building.
It’s only later that night, when you’re back in your little apartment and lying on your narrow bed, that you realize you never even got his name.
_______________________________________________________________________
The second time you meet him, he scares you.
You’re in a practice room in the music building, bent over the keyboard, your hand already cramping as you scribble out the little dots and circles of a new melody, trying a few bars out on the piano before returning to the sheet of paper and rubbing out notes here, adding more there, when a soft husky voice says right behind you, “You write music?”
You gasp and your hands slam involuntarily on the keyboard as you leap up from the piano stool and turn around, your back smashing against the keys and a cacophony of discordant notes echoing around you, your heart pounding in your chest and your fingers gripping the edge of the piano to support your trembling knees.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The voice is familiar and yet not so, and that’s enough for you to really look at the speaker as the haze of shock in front of your mind clears, and your still-thumping heart leaps a little as you recognize the biker from the other day. He’s in a black jacket this time, though his hands are still gloved and his eyes are still lined in black (what sort of man wears eyeliner? you think to yourself even as you see how it accentuates the beautiful cat-like quality of his eyes).
You sink back down on the stool, clenching your hands into fists to try to stop them trembling, and you take a deep breath and open your mouth to say something to him - you’re not even sure what you want to say, and you kick yourself mentally for being 19 years old and still being unable to speak more than one syllable to strangers - but whatever is coming out dies in your throat as he crouches down in front of you and takes your hands in his gloved ones, pulling your fingers outwards and massaging them gently.
“I’m really sorry, I didn’t know you’d be so scared. I was walking past the practice room and saw you through the window, and wanted to come in to make sure you were okay - from, you know, the other day. I’m sorry I scared you.”
You bite down on your lip and shake your head and try to tell him it’s okay, but your voice comes out only as a soft whimper and you can tell by the worry in his eyes that he thinks you’re still scared, or hurt, but you’re not - you’re just shy, and you’re dying of embarrassment inside.
He clasps your hands even tighter in both of his, warming up your cold fingers, and you swallow past your shyness before mumbling a soft, “Thank you.”
He smiles at you and his entire countenance seems to soften and brighten all at once, and his eyes twinkle behind their lining of black as he tosses back a lock of hair. “You know, I never did get your name last time. I’m Jongwoon.”
“R-Ryeowook,” you say after a pause, before you turn red and turn around to gather up your things. He slides easily onto the piano stool, watching you as you pack the music sheets into your file and shut the piano lid.
“Are you a music major?” Jongwoon asks, and you nod, still not looking at him.
“I’d love to hear some of your compositions one day.”
Your head snaps up at that, and you stare straight at Jongwoon, shocked, only to see that he is dead serious. You don’t really know how to react, except how you usually do when people you don’t know speak to you - you duck your head, whisper “Bye, thanks” and walk off quickly, leaving him behind, willing your cheeks to stop burning.
_________________________________________________________________
He starts coming to the practice room almost every night after that, and for some reason you find it strangely comforting that he’s there and talking to you, especially when you’re tired and you can’t think any further and the notes just don’t seem able to come out as smoothly.
You find out that he’s a chemical engineering major, and you know the engineering block is all the way at the other end of campus and you have no idea why he comes here looking for you, but you don’t dare to ask. In any case, you hardly talk when you’re with him; it’s always him doing the talking, but you don’t mind, and you think neither does he.
This particular night, you pack up and make to walk past him as usual when he reaches out and grabs you, fingers closing around your thin wrist.
“I’ll send you home, okay?”
Your eyes widen but before you can say anything he drags you out of the room, holding you tightly all the way, until the both of you are outside the building and he’s pulling you towards his sleek motorbike parked in a corner. The moment he lets go of you, you shake your head and back away, saying, “I - I can’t…”
“Yes you can. It’s no trouble at all,” he replies, completely misunderstanding your fear.
You shake your head frantically, willing your throat to form the words, and finally you manage to whisper, “M-motorcycle.”
Jongwoon looks back at his bike for a moment and then back to you before understanding dawns on his face, but he smiles and says, “Don’t worry, I promise you, it’s not that bad.” And then suddenly he’s at your side, guiding you onto the bike so you’re sitting sidesaddle on it, and he tells you, “This way’s safer.”
“What way?” you choke out, all the while wondering how he managed to coerce you onto this monstrosity, but then he slides on behind you and holds you in place with his legs before leaning forward to access the handlebars, his arms going around you and folding you snugly against him.
“Most people feel that this way is more secure than if they ride pillion with no support behind them,” he explains softly, right next to your ear, and you feel your cheeks heat up with the close proximity.
“Hold on to me,” he says as he guns the engine, and you barely have time to grab on to the front of his leather jacket as you close your eyes and press your face into his chest.
By the time he reaches your apartment 20 minutes away, his jacket is wrinkled where you were clutching it in a death grip, your hair’s ruffled from the wind and your body’s shaking with the adrenaline of travelling at high speed on a vehicle where there’s no shelter or protection around you except the circle of Jongwoon’s arms, tight and comforting and strong, but you’re smiling and breathless and your eyes are sparkling.
“That was good, wasn’t it?” Jongwoon beams down at you, and you can’t help but laugh and nod, still comfortably ensconced in his arms and your head pressed against his shoulder.
“You should smile more, Ryeowook-ah, you’re beautiful when you’re happy,” he says, and then there’s a moment of shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips past your temple, just the lightest of touches, but heat seems to radiate outwards from there and permeate your entire body.
When he withdraws his arms and helps you off the bike, he cups your cheek in one hand and strokes it gently, and you feel an odd sense of longing and loss when he speeds away.
___________________________________________________________________
Jongwoon is outside your apartment every morning to send you to school, and outside the music building every evening to send you home, sometimes taking you out to breakfast or dinner, and it’s not till almost a month later that you realize he comes even on mornings when he has no classes and on evenings when his classes ended hours ago, and he lives in the dorm on campus but he’s still riding back and forth every day for you. It only makes you wonder why you’re still as shy as ever with him and why he isn’t bored of your speechless company yet.
He takes you to dinner one night in a small cosy eatery a little way from your home, and he picks out the choicest slices of beef and wraps them in lettuce for you, feeding you each bite until you blush and say, “I can feed myself, Jongwoon”, but he insists on doing it until you give in and eat off his fingers passively, and he wipes chilli sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
“When will you play one of your songs for me?” Jongwoon asks casually while wrapping yet another slice of beef for you, and you drop your chopsticks on the table with a loud clatter before turning red. Jongwoon merely reaches over and places them back in your hand, and you look down and shake your head.
“Why not?” he asks, and you bite your lip. You want to tell him that well, actually, you’ve already written a song for him, but you don’t know how to say it, and you’re afraid of how it will sound if you tell him - desperate? Weird? Pushy?
Jongwoon doesn’t push you further, he never does, but he carries on eating and talking, little questions and phrases designed subtly to make you talk, and so you do, and you think Jongwoon’s probably the first person you’ve known who can bring you at least somewhat out of your shell.
He takes you home after the meal, with you curled up against his chest in front of him on the bike as always, and this time, perhaps emboldened by the soju Jongwoon had insisted on ordering during dinner, you invite him up, and smile as his face brightens.
He somehow coaxes you onto the little battered piano in the living room, where you have to sit a while to compose yourself as he sits behind you and encourages you, but Jongwoon has a remarkable ability to make you do things you think you don’t want to do, so you lick your dry lips and begin to play and almost as soon as the first notes flow out from your fingers you lose yourself in the music.
You play the song you’ve written for him, a slow and soothing melody which you wrote only because somehow, you associate Jongwoon with calmness and smoothness and this is how he makes you feel, but when you finish the song and look up at him you’re stunned to see that he’s crying.
“Jongwoon!” you gasp, your hands reaching out towards him as you begin to panic and wonder what, what, could you have done to make him cry, but he grabs your hands and pulls you to him and kisses you.
There’s a moment when time seems to just stop and you freeze, just feeling the pressure of his lips against yours and his long bangs brushing your face and the wetness of his tears on your cheeks and his hands clasping yours, but then he kisses you harder, deep and needy and you can’t do anything but respond, leaning into it as your fingers entangle themselves in his.
After a minute - or an hour, or an eternity - you pull away for air and the both of you stare at each other for a long moment. His eyeliner is slightly smudged and his eyes are bright with tears, but he’s smiling, and then he pulls you in to kiss you again.
“That was beautiful, Ryeowook-ah,” he whispers into your mouth, and you wind your arms around him to bring him closer.
He stays over that night, with you curled up against him and his arms around you in a protective cocoon, and you’ve never slept better.
__________________________________________________________________
It takes a month for Jongwoon to say to you, “I love you.”
It takes eight months for you to say it back.
When you finally do, you wonder why you were so shy and afraid to do so earlier because he literally lights up, his grin almost splitting his face in two, and he hugs you so tightly you can’t breathe, before bending down and kissing you breathless again.
The rest of the day, he’s walking around with the goofiest smile you’ve ever seen on his face and he never lets go of your hand, and - even though you’d never be able to articulate it to him - you think you’d do almost anything to keep him this happy.
_______________________________________________________________________
“So, I hear that you’re dating Kim Jongwoon from the Engineering Faculty.”
The speaker is Jungsu, your fellow music major, and he’s one of the few people you feel really comfortable with. Jungsu is a person who’s all sparkling smiles and witty jokes, and he’s sociable and popular, but there’s a motherly air about him that puts you at ease when you’re in his presence.
You’re too shocked to reply, but you can feel a blush creeping up on your cheeks and Jungsu must have seen it because he laughs, high-pitched and distinctive, and says, “Don’t be so shy, Ryeowookie, almost everyone’s seen you either coming to school or going back with him on that bike of his.”
Jungsu’s words only serve to mortify you more, and you cast around for a door to make your escape.
But Jungsu is standing up already, and he grins down at you, his dimple flashing. “Not bad at all, Ryeowook. That motorbike is seriously hot, and as for the man himself, he’s pure sex. Everyone on campus has been dying to get their hands on him, and now he’s with you.” Jungsu bends over to pinch your cheek. “How did a cute sweet quiet little thing like you snag the resident sex god of the campus?”
You’re wondering the same thing yourself.
____________________________________________________________________
Jongwoon picks you up after class one night, wrapping you in the extra jacket he always brings for you nowadays ever since he realized that riding on the bike makes you cold because of the strong winds, and then puts you in front of him as usual so you can lean against him, secure and snug and warm in his arms.
He brings you to the beach where the both of you kick off your sneakers, roll up your jeans, and walk along the water, Jongwoon talking without stopping and pointing out constellations and you occasionally nodding your head and saying a few quiet words.
When you’re tired, he brings you back to the bike, and you sit down on the sand and lean against it, putting your head on his shoulder as he puts an arm around you, and the feel of his fingers caressing your upper arm somehow makes you bold enough to ask him, “Jongwoon, aren’t you ever bored with me?”
He looks down at you, incredulity written all over his face. “No, why would I be?”
You look down and say nothing, the moment of courage over even as you mentally kick yourself again (you do this a lot when Jongwoon is around), and as always Jongwoon doesn’t speak, he just waits a while and when it’s apparent you aren’t going to say anything more he smoothly slides on to another topic, and all of a sudden you’re assailed by so much guilt that you blurt out, “I - I never talk, Jongwoon.”
He stops whatever he’s saying and puts his hand under your chin to tilt your face up. “It doesn’t matter to me, Ryeowook.”
“I’m worried,” you whisper.
“There’s nothing to be worried about. I love you just the way you are,” he replies, drawing you closer, and you wonder how he always seems to know what’s in your mind even without you needing to say anything.
“Sometimes, there’s so much I want to say to you, and I just - I just can’t, Jongwoon,” you say, and you’re almost shivering.
He puts both arms around you and hugs you tightly before nuzzling your hair and kissing you on the top of your head. “Most times, Ryeowook, there’s no need for words,” he says simply.
______________________________________________________________________
Jongwoon is the complete antithesis of you.
He’s noisy where you’re silent, bold where you’re shy, confident where you’re insecure, assertive where you’re indecisive.
He still does all the talking, and you still hardly say a word.
He still knows exactly what you’re thinking, even when you don’t say a word.
But when you’re lying together, forehead pressed to forehead, and he’s looking at you and smiling and you feel his arms around you, strong and solid and dependable, you know you love him and he loves you, and that’s more than enough for the both of you.
One moment you’re walking across the college campus, no easy task considering how you’re balancing a water bottle, a heavy laptop, several books and a file of music sheets and the strong wind is buffeting your slight frame, when a slick of red and black flashes across your vision and a sharp pain in your leg just above your knee makes you crumple to the ground.
You hear the distinctive screeching of brakes and look up, hand instinctively clutching your leg, to see a huge black and red motorcycle come to a halt a few feet away and its rider get off, pulling his helmet off and almost flinging it aside as he runs to you, stammering apologies.
He crouches down next to you, asking solicitous questions in a deep husky voice - “Are you all right? Where does it hurt?” - and without even waiting for you to reply he reaches out and runs his hands, encased in black leather fingerless gloves, down your leg, and you hold your breath as this stranger checks if you’re ok, wondering if you should flinch, or pull away, or stop him, but he’s so careful and gentle that you relax.
He ascertains that you have nothing more than a bruise and apologises profusely again before helping you to your feet and brushing grit from the road off the seat of your jeans and the back of your thighs, and you blush and thank him.
He helps you gather your things on the ground, then tosses you a smile and reaches out to ruffle your hair and pat your cheek lightly, and it’s then that you notice how his hair, curling softly over the collar of his red biker’s jacket, glows almost golden in the late afternoon sunlight and his eyes, rimmed in black, are large and long and beautiful.
He gets back on his bike, revs it up, and zooms off like a maniac (apparently knocking you down didn’t teach him anything), while you stand and stare after him until he’s a mere red dot in the distance and you recover yourself enough to start walking towards the music building.
It’s only later that night, when you’re back in your little apartment and lying on your narrow bed, that you realize you never even got his name.
_______________________________________________________________________
The second time you meet him, he scares you.
You’re in a practice room in the music building, bent over the keyboard, your hand already cramping as you scribble out the little dots and circles of a new melody, trying a few bars out on the piano before returning to the sheet of paper and rubbing out notes here, adding more there, when a soft husky voice says right behind you, “You write music?”
You gasp and your hands slam involuntarily on the keyboard as you leap up from the piano stool and turn around, your back smashing against the keys and a cacophony of discordant notes echoing around you, your heart pounding in your chest and your fingers gripping the edge of the piano to support your trembling knees.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The voice is familiar and yet not so, and that’s enough for you to really look at the speaker as the haze of shock in front of your mind clears, and your still-thumping heart leaps a little as you recognize the biker from the other day. He’s in a black jacket this time, though his hands are still gloved and his eyes are still lined in black (what sort of man wears eyeliner? you think to yourself even as you see how it accentuates the beautiful cat-like quality of his eyes).
You sink back down on the stool, clenching your hands into fists to try to stop them trembling, and you take a deep breath and open your mouth to say something to him - you’re not even sure what you want to say, and you kick yourself mentally for being 19 years old and still being unable to speak more than one syllable to strangers - but whatever is coming out dies in your throat as he crouches down in front of you and takes your hands in his gloved ones, pulling your fingers outwards and massaging them gently.
“I’m really sorry, I didn’t know you’d be so scared. I was walking past the practice room and saw you through the window, and wanted to come in to make sure you were okay - from, you know, the other day. I’m sorry I scared you.”
You bite down on your lip and shake your head and try to tell him it’s okay, but your voice comes out only as a soft whimper and you can tell by the worry in his eyes that he thinks you’re still scared, or hurt, but you’re not - you’re just shy, and you’re dying of embarrassment inside.
He clasps your hands even tighter in both of his, warming up your cold fingers, and you swallow past your shyness before mumbling a soft, “Thank you.”
He smiles at you and his entire countenance seems to soften and brighten all at once, and his eyes twinkle behind their lining of black as he tosses back a lock of hair. “You know, I never did get your name last time. I’m Jongwoon.”
“R-Ryeowook,” you say after a pause, before you turn red and turn around to gather up your things. He slides easily onto the piano stool, watching you as you pack the music sheets into your file and shut the piano lid.
“Are you a music major?” Jongwoon asks, and you nod, still not looking at him.
“I’d love to hear some of your compositions one day.”
Your head snaps up at that, and you stare straight at Jongwoon, shocked, only to see that he is dead serious. You don’t really know how to react, except how you usually do when people you don’t know speak to you - you duck your head, whisper “Bye, thanks” and walk off quickly, leaving him behind, willing your cheeks to stop burning.
_________________________________________________________________
He starts coming to the practice room almost every night after that, and for some reason you find it strangely comforting that he’s there and talking to you, especially when you’re tired and you can’t think any further and the notes just don’t seem able to come out as smoothly.
You find out that he’s a chemical engineering major, and you know the engineering block is all the way at the other end of campus and you have no idea why he comes here looking for you, but you don’t dare to ask. In any case, you hardly talk when you’re with him; it’s always him doing the talking, but you don’t mind, and you think neither does he.
This particular night, you pack up and make to walk past him as usual when he reaches out and grabs you, fingers closing around your thin wrist.
“I’ll send you home, okay?”
Your eyes widen but before you can say anything he drags you out of the room, holding you tightly all the way, until the both of you are outside the building and he’s pulling you towards his sleek motorbike parked in a corner. The moment he lets go of you, you shake your head and back away, saying, “I - I can’t…”
“Yes you can. It’s no trouble at all,” he replies, completely misunderstanding your fear.
You shake your head frantically, willing your throat to form the words, and finally you manage to whisper, “M-motorcycle.”
Jongwoon looks back at his bike for a moment and then back to you before understanding dawns on his face, but he smiles and says, “Don’t worry, I promise you, it’s not that bad.” And then suddenly he’s at your side, guiding you onto the bike so you’re sitting sidesaddle on it, and he tells you, “This way’s safer.”
“What way?” you choke out, all the while wondering how he managed to coerce you onto this monstrosity, but then he slides on behind you and holds you in place with his legs before leaning forward to access the handlebars, his arms going around you and folding you snugly against him.
“Most people feel that this way is more secure than if they ride pillion with no support behind them,” he explains softly, right next to your ear, and you feel your cheeks heat up with the close proximity.
“Hold on to me,” he says as he guns the engine, and you barely have time to grab on to the front of his leather jacket as you close your eyes and press your face into his chest.
By the time he reaches your apartment 20 minutes away, his jacket is wrinkled where you were clutching it in a death grip, your hair’s ruffled from the wind and your body’s shaking with the adrenaline of travelling at high speed on a vehicle where there’s no shelter or protection around you except the circle of Jongwoon’s arms, tight and comforting and strong, but you’re smiling and breathless and your eyes are sparkling.
“That was good, wasn’t it?” Jongwoon beams down at you, and you can’t help but laugh and nod, still comfortably ensconced in his arms and your head pressed against his shoulder.
“You should smile more, Ryeowook-ah, you’re beautiful when you’re happy,” he says, and then there’s a moment of shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips past your temple, just the lightest of touches, but heat seems to radiate outwards from there and permeate your entire body.
When he withdraws his arms and helps you off the bike, he cups your cheek in one hand and strokes it gently, and you feel an odd sense of longing and loss when he speeds away.
___________________________________________________________________
Jongwoon is outside your apartment every morning to send you to school, and outside the music building every evening to send you home, sometimes taking you out to breakfast or dinner, and it’s not till almost a month later that you realize he comes even on mornings when he has no classes and on evenings when his classes ended hours ago, and he lives in the dorm on campus but he’s still riding back and forth every day for you. It only makes you wonder why you’re still as shy as ever with him and why he isn’t bored of your speechless company yet.
He takes you to dinner one night in a small cosy eatery a little way from your home, and he picks out the choicest slices of beef and wraps them in lettuce for you, feeding you each bite until you blush and say, “I can feed myself, Jongwoon”, but he insists on doing it until you give in and eat off his fingers passively, and he wipes chilli sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
“When will you play one of your songs for me?” Jongwoon asks casually while wrapping yet another slice of beef for you, and you drop your chopsticks on the table with a loud clatter before turning red. Jongwoon merely reaches over and places them back in your hand, and you look down and shake your head.
“Why not?” he asks, and you bite your lip. You want to tell him that well, actually, you’ve already written a song for him, but you don’t know how to say it, and you’re afraid of how it will sound if you tell him - desperate? Weird? Pushy?
Jongwoon doesn’t push you further, he never does, but he carries on eating and talking, little questions and phrases designed subtly to make you talk, and so you do, and you think Jongwoon’s probably the first person you’ve known who can bring you at least somewhat out of your shell.
He takes you home after the meal, with you curled up against his chest in front of him on the bike as always, and this time, perhaps emboldened by the soju Jongwoon had insisted on ordering during dinner, you invite him up, and smile as his face brightens.
He somehow coaxes you onto the little battered piano in the living room, where you have to sit a while to compose yourself as he sits behind you and encourages you, but Jongwoon has a remarkable ability to make you do things you think you don’t want to do, so you lick your dry lips and begin to play and almost as soon as the first notes flow out from your fingers you lose yourself in the music.
You play the song you’ve written for him, a slow and soothing melody which you wrote only because somehow, you associate Jongwoon with calmness and smoothness and this is how he makes you feel, but when you finish the song and look up at him you’re stunned to see that he’s crying.
“Jongwoon!” you gasp, your hands reaching out towards him as you begin to panic and wonder what, what, could you have done to make him cry, but he grabs your hands and pulls you to him and kisses you.
There’s a moment when time seems to just stop and you freeze, just feeling the pressure of his lips against yours and his long bangs brushing your face and the wetness of his tears on your cheeks and his hands clasping yours, but then he kisses you harder, deep and needy and you can’t do anything but respond, leaning into it as your fingers entangle themselves in his.
After a minute - or an hour, or an eternity - you pull away for air and the both of you stare at each other for a long moment. His eyeliner is slightly smudged and his eyes are bright with tears, but he’s smiling, and then he pulls you in to kiss you again.
“That was beautiful, Ryeowook-ah,” he whispers into your mouth, and you wind your arms around him to bring him closer.
He stays over that night, with you curled up against him and his arms around you in a protective cocoon, and you’ve never slept better.
__________________________________________________________________
It takes a month for Jongwoon to say to you, “I love you.”
It takes eight months for you to say it back.
When you finally do, you wonder why you were so shy and afraid to do so earlier because he literally lights up, his grin almost splitting his face in two, and he hugs you so tightly you can’t breathe, before bending down and kissing you breathless again.
The rest of the day, he’s walking around with the goofiest smile you’ve ever seen on his face and he never lets go of your hand, and - even though you’d never be able to articulate it to him - you think you’d do almost anything to keep him this happy.
_______________________________________________________________________
“So, I hear that you’re dating Kim Jongwoon from the Engineering Faculty.”
The speaker is Jungsu, your fellow music major, and he’s one of the few people you feel really comfortable with. Jungsu is a person who’s all sparkling smiles and witty jokes, and he’s sociable and popular, but there’s a motherly air about him that puts you at ease when you’re in his presence.
You’re too shocked to reply, but you can feel a blush creeping up on your cheeks and Jungsu must have seen it because he laughs, high-pitched and distinctive, and says, “Don’t be so shy, Ryeowookie, almost everyone’s seen you either coming to school or going back with him on that bike of his.”
Jungsu’s words only serve to mortify you more, and you cast around for a door to make your escape.
But Jungsu is standing up already, and he grins down at you, his dimple flashing. “Not bad at all, Ryeowook. That motorbike is seriously hot, and as for the man himself, he’s pure sex. Everyone on campus has been dying to get their hands on him, and now he’s with you.” Jungsu bends over to pinch your cheek. “How did a cute sweet quiet little thing like you snag the resident sex god of the campus?”
You’re wondering the same thing yourself.
____________________________________________________________________
Jongwoon picks you up after class one night, wrapping you in the extra jacket he always brings for you nowadays ever since he realized that riding on the bike makes you cold because of the strong winds, and then puts you in front of him as usual so you can lean against him, secure and snug and warm in his arms.
He brings you to the beach where the both of you kick off your sneakers, roll up your jeans, and walk along the water, Jongwoon talking without stopping and pointing out constellations and you occasionally nodding your head and saying a few quiet words.
When you’re tired, he brings you back to the bike, and you sit down on the sand and lean against it, putting your head on his shoulder as he puts an arm around you, and the feel of his fingers caressing your upper arm somehow makes you bold enough to ask him, “Jongwoon, aren’t you ever bored with me?”
He looks down at you, incredulity written all over his face. “No, why would I be?”
You look down and say nothing, the moment of courage over even as you mentally kick yourself again (you do this a lot when Jongwoon is around), and as always Jongwoon doesn’t speak, he just waits a while and when it’s apparent you aren’t going to say anything more he smoothly slides on to another topic, and all of a sudden you’re assailed by so much guilt that you blurt out, “I - I never talk, Jongwoon.”
He stops whatever he’s saying and puts his hand under your chin to tilt your face up. “It doesn’t matter to me, Ryeowook.”
“I’m worried,” you whisper.
“There’s nothing to be worried about. I love you just the way you are,” he replies, drawing you closer, and you wonder how he always seems to know what’s in your mind even without you needing to say anything.
“Sometimes, there’s so much I want to say to you, and I just - I just can’t, Jongwoon,” you say, and you’re almost shivering.
He puts both arms around you and hugs you tightly before nuzzling your hair and kissing you on the top of your head. “Most times, Ryeowook, there’s no need for words,” he says simply.
______________________________________________________________________
Jongwoon is the complete antithesis of you.
He’s noisy where you’re silent, bold where you’re shy, confident where you’re insecure, assertive where you’re indecisive.
He still does all the talking, and you still hardly say a word.
He still knows exactly what you’re thinking, even when you don’t say a word.
But when you’re lying together, forehead pressed to forehead, and he’s looking at you and smiling and you feel his arms around you, strong and solid and dependable, you know you love him and he loves you, and that’s more than enough for the both of you.