18. Jae
Chapter eighteen
Jae
I groan into the pillow. The sound is muffled, pathetic, and flat.
My right arm is trapped beneath my torso, completely dead at the elbow. I drag it out inch by inch, skin sticking to the warm cotton sheets. I sleep naked because LA apartments in August operate like kiln-firing chambers, and my thermostat has been broken since I moved in.
I’m also sporting a raging fucking boner. Not enthusiastically so—not the kind that demands action—just the involuntary, mechanical reality of a body waking up before the brain has agreed to participate.
The phone buzzes a fourth time. Then a fifth.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. My voice is pure gravel.
I reach blindly for the nightstand, my palm sliding across cold glass before my fingers catch the edge of the screen. I pull it over my face. The display is set to full blinding brightness, and the glare sends a hot spike of pain straight through my right temple.
The preview notification sits on the lock screen, attached to the contact name: Brittany.
Brittany, the brunette with big tits I met the first week I got to LA. The girl to call for a good time. We hooked up twice after a couple of spicy edging sessions over Snapchat, but now the whole thing just feels…wrong.
I open the thread.
The message chain is already a mess of unprompted enthusiasm:
Brittany: Hey you! I was thinking about last time and wondering if you wanted to grab lunch today? I’m free after 3. Let me know!
Brittany: Or dinner! Dinner works too. Whatever you’re feeling. Just want to see you :)
Brittany: I could even bring food to your place so you don't have to leave? I made cinnamon rolls! Most guys say I'm wife material for it because they taste so good haha ??
My dick gives up entirely. One emoji and the physical impulse deflates like a punctured balloon.
I drop the phone onto my chest and stare up at the blank ceiling.
Buzz.
Brittany: Unless you're busy with school stuff? I promise I'll be super quiet if you need to study, I can just sit on your bed and keep you company ?? You won’t even know I’m there!
A tight, cold knot forms at the base of my throat.
The desperate, performative flexibility makes my stomach turn.
It isn't intellect or disgust at her, exactly. It’s the sour, familiar taste of self-loathing for letting this go on long enough that she thinks bending herself into whatever shape I want will make me like her.
I sit up. The sheets pool around my hips, the morning heat already sticking to the small of my back. I drag both palms down my face, hard, feeling the rough scrape of overnight stubble against my hands.
I open the chat and start typing. No fluff. No sweetening the pill.
Me: Brittany. Don't do that.
The three little gray dots appear instantly. She was literally staring at her screen waiting for my name to pop up.
Brittany: Do what?? I was just offering!! I just feel like we had such a cool connection and I really like hanging out with you. I'm not asking for a label or anything crazy!!
Brittany: Did I do something wrong? You've been so cold the last few weeks…did I make you mad? I can fix whatever it was, just tell me!
I wince.
God, it’s painful to read.
Part of me wants to just block the number, throw the phone in the closet, and pretend I never opened the app. It would be easier. It would save me from having to play executioner before I’ve even had a glass of water.
But ghosting a girl who is practically begging for scraps is a special kind of cowardice, and as much of a jaded asshole as I can be, I’m not that much of a piece of shit.
I lean my elbows on my knees and type out the truth, as blunt and unvarnished as I can make it:
Me: You didn't do anything wrong. You're a sweet girl, Brittany, honestly.
You're fun, you're pretty, and you deserve someone who actually appreciates that.
But there is no "connection" here. We hooked up twice because we were bored, and I let you think it meant something more than it did.
That's on me. But I'm not interested in coffee, dinner, or you sitting on my bed.
Brittany: Wow. You don't have to be so mean about it…I was just trying to be nice to you.
Me: I'm not trying to be mean, I'm trying to be honest. You're a good girl offering to bake me food and act like a ghost in my apartment just to get five minutes of my time.
Don't do that to yourself. Have some self-respect, stop texting me, and go find a guy who actually wants to spend time with you.
I read it over. It’s harsh. It stings. It makes me sound like a cold, arrogant prick—which, right now, is exactly what she needs me to be so she stops humiliating herself in my inbox.
I hit send.
The three gray dots pulse. They hang there for ten agonizing seconds—long enough for me to imagine her staring at the screen, face burning, processing the hit.
Then the dots vanish. No reply.
Good.
I set the phone screen-down on the nightstand and stand up. My heart is beating a little too fast, an acidulous spike of adrenaline burning through the morning haze.
I walk into the bathroom, turn the shower knob all the way to red, and step into water hot enough to sting. Steam floods the small tiled box, fogging the mirror, erasing the room, erasing the morning, until there’s nothing left except white noise and heat.
My gaming chair screeches like a dying animal every time I shift my weight. The manufacturer called it “ergonomic racing style”; my downstairs neighbor considers it justification for aggravated assault.
It’s 11:30 PM. The dual monitors throw a cold, electric-blue wash across my desk.
On the left screen: the map of Apex Legends, blue light reflecting off my knuckles as I rest my fingers on WASD.
On the right: Discord, where Kiho’s avatar—a cursed, mid-chew selfie from a street vendor in Mapo—lights up green every time he yells into his mic.
“—?? ???? ? ?? ? ???, LA? ???? ? ?? ???? ?? ??.” (“if you pick the charge rifle one more time, I am flying to LA to break your hands”), Kiho’s voice crackles through my headset, fluent Korean laced with gaming profanity.
“???, ?. ?? ??? ? ?? ?????? ?? ????.” (“Seriously, hyung. It’s a weapon for cowards who can’t aim. ”)
“The charge rifle is about precision,” I say, taking a sip of flat, room-temperature energy drink beside my mousepad. The liquid leaves a sticky, chemical aftertaste on my tongue. “Some of us value hitting what we target.”
“Some of us value having a soul,” Kiho counters, instantly dropping into English. “Drop Fragment. I’m feeling toxic.”
We drop. The digital skyline rushes up to meet us—decaying skyscrapers, narrow alleys, tight sightlines.
For ten minutes, my brain clears out to the steady, rhythmic clack of my mechanical switches.
Kiho shrieks into my ear every time he lands a headshot, the bright, obnoxious noise filling my headset with the familiar comfort of home.
Not the Seoul of expectations and schedules, but the Seoul of his bedroom at three in the morning, two teenagers huddled over two laptops, trash-talking each other in Korean so foul their mothers would have slapped them both.
Then my filter fails.
We’re looting a building in the central plaza, clearing rooms with mechanical efficiency, when I watch Kiho take a blind, aggressive angle around a corner without checking his flank.
“You know, my Ethics partner would tear you apart for that,” I mutter before my brain can catch the sentence.
“You act like you’re pulling off a tactical masterpiece, but your risk assessment is garbage.
She’d look at your setup, point out three ways you’re setting yourself up to get ambushed, and make you feel like an idiot before you even hit the ground. ”
The words hang in the air, heavy and uninvited.
Kiho’s character stops dead in the middle of the hallway.
It isn't a lag spike. It’s the loaded, predatory silence of a man who just heard a tripwire snap in the dark.
“Ya. Hyung.” His voice drops into a terrifyingly sweet register. “Are you talking about that law girl again?”
My fingers freeze over the keys. “I’m critiquing your garbage positioning.”
“Bro, you’ve brought her up three times tonight,” Kiho croons, leaning so close to his mic I can hear the grin in his throat.
“First it was some random detail about how she structures her notes, then how she corners people during arguments, and now she’s apparently backseat-driving your Apex drops?
Hyung, you sound completely compromised. ”
“Focus on the corridor,” I bite out, my hand tightening around my mouse until the plastic creaks.
Kiho doesn't focus on the corridor. Instead, he pitches his voice into a breathy, melodramatic falsetto that sounds like a dub on a bad daytime drama.
“‘Oh, Kiho-ya,’” he swoons into his headset. “‘She’s so sharp, Kiho-ya! She wears a little pink bow in her hair and shreds my logic to pieces! She smells like vanilla and plum blossoms and I just love watching her win—’”
“Shut up.”
“‘—and when she presses her shoulder against mine in the library, I forget how to breathe—’”
Kiho breaks into a wheezing, hysterical laugh, his character standing wide open in the courtyard.
Snap.
A sniper round takes Kiho’s character clean through the helmet. His avatar collapses instantly into a wooden box of digital loot.
“LOOK WHAT YOU DID!” Kiho screams, his voice cracking into full-blown theatrics. “I DIED BECAUSE OF YOUR CRUSH! THIS IS A DIRECT CASUALTY OF YOUR UNREQUITED LONGING!”
“I don’t have a crush,” I say. The sentence comes out flat, devoid of any conviction, dissolving the second it hits the room.
“Right. You don’t have a crush. You just talk about her every day, compare every other girl to her, and you could probably describe her perfume in you sleep. You’re right. That’s not a crush—that’s full-blown simp infection.”
I lean back in the chair, letting the frame screech against the quiet of my apartment. I stare up at the blank white ceiling, feeling the cool draft from the window against my ankles, and click the button to respawn his idiot character back into the match.
“Speaking of being a simp,” I say. “How’s your girlfriend?”
“Don’t soft-pivot me, you coward. My girlfriend is great. She told me to tell you that you’re fucked, by the way.”
“She’s never even been part of the conversation.”
“She doesn't need to. I told her everything and described the symptoms. She diagnosed you in four seconds.”
I line up a shot on an enemy squad two buildings over, holding my breath, clicking the primary mouse button with cold, mechanical focus until the screen flashes ELIMINATED.
Kiho lets out a low whistle. “Nice shot.”
He lets the topic drop. That’s the unspoken agreement between us: he drives the blade in until he hits bone, then steps back before the wound bleeds out.
We play two more matches in relative quiet. My fingers move across the keys on pure muscle memory, but my mind has completely checked out, running through an involuntary playback of the last thirteen weeks. With only one week left in the semester, every single memory feels on a countdown.
The way my eyes automatically track across the second floor of Thornfield Hall at 9:58 PM, waiting for her to round the stacks.
The sharp, dangerous curve of her mouth when she catches me slipping on a procedural detail.
The pink silk bow tucked into her hair—soft, pristine, perched right over a mind that operates like a steel trap.
And Sunday night. Our last study session in the alcove.
The countdown was running in the back of my head all night, an unbearable background noise. When she handed over the printed briefs, her skin brushed mine—a lingering, slow drag of fingers that set every nerve in my arm on fire. Then she tilted her head up and looked right into me.
Jesus, those eyes.
They aren't just blue; they’re this beautiful clear, electric, storm-glass blue that seemed to catch every scrap of amber light in the library and burn with it.
My heart kicked against my ribs, hard and uneven, like it was trying to break out of my chest and crawl over to her side of the table.
A heavy, aching heat settled low in my gut, making my stomach tighten.
My mind completely stalled out—the English language just dissolved, taking every law rule and self-preservation instinct with it.
She didn't even have to try. In three silent seconds, she completely unraveled me, leaving me sitting there breathless, helpless, and stupid.
Nobody else holds my attention. Not the girls at the bar. Not Brittany’s desperate texts at 7:40 AM. None of them.
“Hey,” Kiho’s voice comes through and the mocking edge is gone. “You still there?”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretches across the Pacific—a heavy, comfortable bridge between two guys who used to share cheap ramen while staring at twin laptop screens in Mapo-gu.
I sit in the blue glow of the dual monitors. The mouse feels heavy in my palm.
It isn't just curiosity. It isn't just academic rivalry.
I like Amiyah Lane.
Like, I really fucking like her.