Chapter 8 ~ Bellamy #3
I made it last week using a username he’d recognise if he bothered to peruse his followers. It’s under his favourite nickname for me after all.
He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “You are such a fucking stalker, oh my God.”
For you? Yeah, I am.
“I have to say, your birthday post from last year looked a little too intimate for social media,” I pout. “Body shots, teasing us with skinny dipping and then a sweet little kiss in the water.”
“Aw, is someone feeling a little jealous he couldn’t take me to Miami?”
Fucking surfer dude.
“No.”
I am—I am a fucking jealous bastard who hates that all of Minho’s first with a guy probably happened with that beach god.
“Liar.”
Doesn’t even matter, seeing as Minho’s single now. I mean, I know he doesn’t do anything serious anymore, but this is good news—for me, not so much for him, as this means I can up the antics a little going forward.
“Who can tell me what T.S. Eliot is doing with fragmentation in The Waste Land?” The professor asks, grabbing our attention.
I remember that I should be slumping in my chair. The last thing I need is for her to see me in this class, and then that becomes a mess I can’t sweet-talk my way out of.
Shit.
That’s when her words hit me, and I shoot Minho a glare. “I thought this class was about history?”
He laughs under his breath, still not looking at me as he writes down notes. “If you look at your schedule again, I am sure you will see that it is on Mondays with Mr Wilson.”
Just fucking great.
I am in hell.
This is a poem class. How much money can I bet Minho is probably laughing in that head of his before this class is over?
A few students raise their hands, but I tune everything around me out until all my attention is fixed on the little space between Minho and me. He’s taking notes, and all I can think about is how I want his elegant handwriting tattooed on my skin.
But then, I already have a tattoo dedicated to him, just below my ribcage, one I hope to show him someday because I am never getting rid of it; it's permanent in a way my obsession with him always will be.
He’s it for me.
I watch his hand move across the page of his notebook, the flex of his fingers around the pen, and think about what those fingers would feel like wrapped around something else.
Minho must feel me watching, because he glances in my direction, eyes narrowing. “Stop staring,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over that of the professors.
“I’m not staring.”
I was, and I didn’t care.
“You’re staring, and it's freaking me out.”
“I am simply admiring how pretty you are.”
His pen pauses, jaw tightening again, but he doesn’t look at me when he says, “Stop, please, just stop.”
“Make me.”
“Fuck,” a soft, feminine voice whispers from behind us, and we both turn to see a girl with round glasses and freckles peppering the bridge of her nose, blushing while looking between us. “You two are so hot together.”
I smirk, and Minho shakes his head as if pleading with me not to say anything, but it is too late; I can’t help myself.
“Yeah, we’re also step-brothers, and we fuck a lot—” I pause, my smile growing wider when I realise I have her full attention.
“You might have actually heard us in the storage room across the hall before class.” I lean in closer to her and put a hand in front of my mouth to make it look like we are two friends sharing a secret.
“Minho here moans like crazy when I hit his prostate repeatedly before letting him come.”
“Oh, God.” The girl looks like she is seconds away from moaning or fingering herself or both as she rubs her thighs together, and I have to say, if I had this effect on Minho, life would be so much more amazing right now.
“What the fuck,” Minho hisses before darting his gaze in the girl's direction. “We don’t do any of that shit; don’t listen to him.”
I shift in my seat so I am looking at him again. “But we could.”
He snorts, crosses his arms and sits back in his chair, finally looking at me. “You’re seriously obsessed with fucking me, aren’t you?”
I lean in close, holding eye contact with him but not touching any part of him—not yet. I swear I can hear how hard he’s breathing, but that could be my imagination. “You have no idea how badly I want you, baby.”
“Your little crush on me is getting old, Bells.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” he says a little too quickly. “You need to move on because nothing is ever going to happen between us.”
His words hurt more than I’d like to admit as I slump back in my chair, tuning everything out as the professor talks about our assignment; I don’t care to note it down for later.
Nothing is ever going to happen between us.
I know he is just saying that to break me the way I did him, and that I shouldn’t read too much into it because things can change.
But fuck.
Maybe Yeseo was right. I should have done this somewhere quiet and private. I should have just apologised first.
I won't give up.
No.
Giving up means there truly is no hope for us, and I refuse to believe that. Not when I am just getting started. I’ll just have to pivot a little because I am far from done.
Minho Seong-Walker will be my boyfriend.
I know it.