The air in my room feels heavy, as if even the walls are holding their breath. I sit with my legs crossed beside Dominic, whose body lies motionless across the crumpled duvet, the soft rise and fall of his chest barely visible beneath the cotton. His cheeks and full lips are tinged with pink—thankfully alive. His being unconscious makes my nerves rattle slightly.
Amma is perched over him like a seasoned medic. Her hands move swiftly and efficiently, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air. Even the latex gloves she wears seem exhausted, stretching over her fingers. They have done this far too often. She disinfects his bruised knuckles, each wipe gentler than the last.
I wince just watching it, the angry flush of inflammation.
My fault…
She bandages both hands firmly, then places gel packs over them, the soft hiss of compressed ice breaking the silence. The sound breaks the unnerving tension. With a sigh pulled deep from her chest, she pulls the gloves off and crumples them into her palm.
"He's going to be fine," she says, voice firm but worn.
A sigh of relief leaves me.
"We just have to wait for him to come to. Fortunately, you didn't break his bones, Seong Jin, because let me tell you, my patience doesn't include paying the medical bills for someone else's child."
Even though her words aren't meant to sound cruel, they still land like bricks.
I nod sheepishly, looking away. My eyes catch the edge of Dominic's hand resting limply beside mine. I keep replaying the moment, that accidental slam of the window. Guilt tightens around my ribs.
Then I feel a burning stare.
I glance to my right and meet Yang Jin's gaze.
Concern etched into every crease of his brow, he stands to the side quietly. But behind the worry, there's something else. A cross between curiosity and suspicion, and it makes my skin itch.
Before I can ask why he's looking at me like I committed a felony, my mum straightens her posture with terrifying grace. Her stance shifts, arms crossing over her chest. I know that stance. It looks like the prologue to a lecture no mortal can escape.
"Now," she begins, voice dipped in sternness. "Anyone want to tell me how this happened?"
My eyes flick up to hers, wide and guilty.
I swallow. "How what happened?"
"How some teenage boy almost fell from the window of your room!" Her glare pierces me and I shrink back instinctively.
"No thank you," I mumble in the smallest voice possible, already retreating.
Amma turns her gaze to Yang Jin menacingly.
He blinks, clearly confused by her pointed stare.
Then it hits him.
"Why are you looking at me?"
"Because, Yang Jin, you always do this," she states flatly.
I immediately feel the tension spike between them like static.
He throws his arms up in exasperation. "I always do this, Amma? I always sneak random guys in through Seong Jin's window? I always do that?"
Before he can get himself slapped into a parallel universe, I nudge him hard, eyes warning him to shut up right now.
"Mueos? Juggo sip-eo?" Amma threatens smoothly, her eyes narrowing into slits.
I glance down and spot the giveaway—her left pinkie twitching. That twitch means her restraint is dangling by a thread.
Yang Jin drops his gaze quickly, mumbling something inaudible and definitely less sarcastic than before.
The room goes quiet again.
"Sweetheart…" A voice slices clean through the static in the room, gentle like honey.
My gaze snaps to the doorway and lands on Franklin who softly rests his hand on her shoulder. Her rigid posture softens instantly, like he's a pressure valve easing her into calm.
Franklin, the eternal mediator. You can always count on him to intervene when voices climb too high, when emotions start nipping at the edges. He has mastered the art of defusing Yang Jin, whose tiny volcanic heart always erupts first. My brother may appear unbothered, but all it takes is one well-placed jab to make him spill everything.
Franklin surveys the scene, eyes flicking over Dominic passed out on my bed.
"This is obviously Seong Jin's secret boyfriend," he says casually.
My neck snaps in his direction, eyes blown wide.
"What?" My whole body convulses.
Is he serious?
I shoot him a betrayed look.
Franklin shrugs and mouths, Sorry.
Sorry? Really?
My eyes narrow, gears clicking into place.
Is he protecting Yang Jin again? Of course he is. I've seen this before—the subtle favouritism, the double standards. Yang Jin used to break curfew all the time when he was in secondary school. He'd get into an argument with our mother about this and then when he'd sulk about being yelled at, Franklin would take him out to get ice cream.
I stay up too late and Franklin lets her berate me.
Textbook bias.
My mum, stunned into silence by the word "boyfriend", shakes herself out of her mental swirl. And when she does, she turns her gaze on me.
I stiffen.
The Amma Glare could silence armies. Forget Dominic's cold stare because her glare has actual venom in it.
I look at Franklin again, my eyes throwing daggers.
This is on you, Father of the Year.
"Seong Jin doesn't have a boyfriend," Amma says firmly, and I almost breathe easy until she follows it up with, "He's as straight as they come."
Cue record scratch.
"Mum, I'm not straight."
Her eyes narrow. "You're not?"
"I came out to you two years ago," I exclaim, furrowing my eyebrows at her in bemusement.
"Did you?"
"Yes!"
"Oh." Her tone is disturbingly nonchalant as she blinks rapidly, as if processing information.
Has she spent all this time thinking I was straight?
"But you've never had a boyfriend." She eyes Dominic again and her certainty starts to crack. Her brows fold in suspicion. "Right?"
I don't even know where to begin with that logic.
"No, I haven't had a boyfriend," I mutter, each word holding the weight of courtroom testimony.
Even if I did, like hell I'd let her find out this way. Amma's stance on dating has been crystal clear since I was seven and brought home a drawing of me marrying a cartoon. She nearly burned it. Her rule is no love before books.
Romance is a distraction.
Boys are nonsense.
Education is holy.
So of course, finding a boy in my room feels, in her mind, like a betrayal of the highest kind.
Could I explain to her that I had no intention of inviting Dominic into my room and actually wanted to shove him off the tree? Sure.
Would she believe me? Not a chance.
"Then how would you know if you're straight or gay?" Mum asks, voice sharpened into interrogation mode.
Here we go.
I swallow back the heat rising to my cheeks, opting for a shrug meant to look breezy even though it feels like my lungs are shrinking.
"I mean… I've liked a couple of guys here and there. Just liked them though. I didn't wanna date them or anything."
To my surprise, Yang Jin of all people chimes in. "It's true."
I turn to him slowly, stunned. Did he just… support me?
My face softens into a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks," I say quietly.
But just as quickly, my smile drops. Wait, how does he know that?
Have I ever confessed my crushes to him? I scan my memory but nothing comes to mind. We have never swapped secrets over hot cocoa or braided each other's hair while gossiping. That's just not our dynamic.
The only way he'd know is if he—
"I watched his vlogs," Yang Jin admits.
"You what?" I shriek, eyes nearly popping out of my skull.
I don't even get the chance to be embarrassed because rage immediately takes over my system.
Yang Jin shrinks under my glare, blinking like a guilty toddler caught drawing on the walls. "You weren't supposed to hear that."
"I'm gonna kill you," I say flatly.
Without missing a beat, I lunge off the bed like a predator pouncing at its prey in a goat onesie, ready to wrap my fingers around his neck and teach him the sacred art of respecting boundaries.
He yelps, skittering backward and bolting for the stairs.
My feet stomp after him with vengeance in every step until my mum yanks me back and plants me firmly on the mattress. She wears a stern humourless expression on her face.
"Go have a talk with your son about privacy," she tells Franklin with a dangerous smile that curls at the edges of her lips.
Sweet, obedient, ever confused, Franklin nods. "Of course," he says, as if under some sort of spell.
When he kisses her on the cheek and whispers something inaudible to her, she nods.
Chasing after Yang Jin who's probably halfway down the road by now, Franklin yells, "Yang Jin, your mum said we need to talk!"
And here I am, stewing in fury.
Wet from a vase disaster.
Sitting next to an unconscious boy.
And wrapped in a goat onesie that's seen better days.
What is with people watching my videos as if they're free to air entertainment? Why is my life the one they all tune into? The vlogs are private and personal and protected—I thought. The reason why I didn't tell anyone about them was that I didn't want any of them to watch them. Was that not enough of a cue to my siblings?
At this rate, Dominic might as well start streaming them for the entire internet. I'm pretty sure the people in my circle have all watched the videos without my knowledge.
"And you," my mum slices through the moment like a well-honed blade, crossed arms and lifted chin just enough to let me know this is officially interrogation mode. The look in her eyes is pure maternal dominance. A cross between a protective hen and a dangerous hawk.
"Who is this boy?"
I glance at Dominic who is still unconscious, sprawled dramatically across my bed as if auditioning for the role of Sleeping Beauty.
"Dominic Lachowski," I mumble reluctantly, the name falling from my mouth like a confession.
Her stare sharpens. "And who is he to you?"
My brain short circuits.
Thanks, Dominic. Thanks for sneaking up to my room, passing out and dragging me into this mess with you.
I can't tell her he's a friend because she literally keeps a mental spreadsheet of every person I call my friend.
She's met them all: Taylor, Edward, Damien.
Dominic doesn't belong on that list, which already makes him suspicious.
There's also the girl code to consider.
Ever since her college roommate betrayed her by dating one of her exes, my mum has treated the code like scripture. She didn't just warn me to follow it. She imprinted it. I was seven, attending reception school for the first time, barely knew how to even spell the word boyfriend, and she told me never to date my friend's boyfriends or their exes. Then after ruffling my hair, she left me at the gate.
I cried for about an hour before I was found.
So… what now?
Do I… lie?
Say we're… project partners.
Chemistry.
That's believable because Amma loves anything involving a dedication to education.
But why was Dominic sneaking in through the window?
What kind of weirdo uses the window instead of the door like a normal human being?
Maybe… he was climbing the tree for a leaf experiment—testing oxygen levels or photosynthesis or whatever nonsense sounds smart enough to placate her. The reason why he didn't use the door like a normal human being was because… uh… the angle? He needed access to the freshest leaves and they were too far to reach from inside.
But before I can speak, she narrows her eyes and sees me drowning in the depths of my own internal crisis.
"Seong Jin, don't even think about lying to me," she warns lowly.
The twitch of her left eye says she already knows I was planning to play her like a fiddle.
My mouth seals itself shut in respect for survival.
Of course she knows.
Mothers always do.
They have that sixth sense.
What now?
I glance back at Dominic, his fingers twitching faintly beneath the bandage.
A sigh slips through my lips.
I glance warily at Amma who's still waiting for an answer with all the intensity of a nuclear security officer. If I tell her the truth, that Dominic found my sketchbook and memory card, read my heart laid bare in messy pencil scribbles and is now using it as blackmail collateral, she will quite literally lose her mind.
And I don't mean a strict parent losing it. I mean full on "throw him out the window with her bare hands" type of meltdown. A second floor drop isn't something I think Dominic would bounce back from.
She wouldn't care if his parents were on the school board or if his grandmother funded the local library. She would reach into her emergency savings and wage war on every educational institution until he was expelled for invasion of privacy or something.
Still… part of me is tempted.
Maybe I should just tell her. Maybe if I expose the whole sketchbook saga, she'll unleash her wrath and get him to give it back to me. I won't have to deal with Jodie's stupidity or Dominic's tree climbs. I could reclaim my peace and no one would ever know about my feelings for Edward.
But then the paranoia sets in.
What if, before returning it, Dominic makes copies anyway?
What if tomorrow morning the school bulletin board becomes an altar of my humiliation, paper letters posted like some twisted exhibit?
What if… he makes me a YouTuber?
I physically recoil.
The idea of my awkward internal confessions being broadcast to the world, intro music and jump cuts included, makes my blood go cold.
No, I can't risk it.
The silence in the room thickens, almost audible.
"I… I can't tell you," I murmur, barely louder than a breath and drop my gaze to my lap, hoping it shields me from the storm I know is brewing.
"You can't tell me?" Amma echoes, her voice deceptively calm.
I nod, slow and tentative, fingers fidgeting with invisible lint, scraping nervously at the edges of my nails.
Her eyes, I feel them. Two beams of pure intensity are slicing through my bowed head like lasers. I swear if looks had a kill setting, I'd be halfway to the afterlife by now.
"And why is that?"
I stay silent because even explaining why I can't tell her would unwittingly unravel everything I'm desperately trying to keep stitched up. It's a cruel loop.
"I can't tell you that either," I mumble, almost apologetically.
Her eyes narrow. "Is he your secret boyfriend?"
My head jerks upward so fast I practically hear my neck protesting.
"What?" The sheer horror in my voice makes her lift an eyebrow.
"Is he your boyfriend?" she repeats as if the idea isn't borderline offensive.
"No. God, no. I'd probably kill myself if he were."
The silence that follows feels too loud.
I scramble. "He's just a classmate."
She squints at me with textbook maternal suspicion, the kind that knows when you're lying about something.
"And even if I hypothetically did like him, which I don't, it would never work out. He likes someone else. A girl. Because he's straighter than a ruler. And he just needed my help with that someone, and I—being the saintly creature you raised—offered my services."
Amma leans back, arms crossed. "Oh, so you've become Cupid now?"
"Amma," I sigh, dragging the word out. "I would never date someone like Dominic."
She blinks at me, waiting for elaboration.
"He's rude, manipulative, stubborn, completely allergic to listening. I mean, he acts like life's his stage and the rest of us are marionettes. I get it, he's the puppeteer and all, but sometimes I just wish someone would snip the strings before I lose my mind."
"Now wait, what do puppets have to do with this?"
I press my lips together. "All I'm trying to say is I respect your house and your rules. I'd never do anything inappropriate here."
I could simply do it outside where no one's watching… but let's not go there.
"Just trust that you raised me right," I add with the most sincere expression I can muster.
Her gaze lingers. "So you don't like him?"
"No," I say firmly. "He frustrates me beyond reason. He's like… like one of those blood sucking parasites. What are they called again?"
"A leech?" she offers, lips twitching with an almost smile.
"Yes, a leech. That's Dominic. Draining. Not just energy but soul level stamina. All to keep himself functioning. Like some sort of battery powered by my misery."
"Right…" Amma watches me for another beat, and then I catch a jumble of words. "Not straight, my arse."
I don't know what she's implying.
She straightens up and says, "Good."
The word is short and simple but it lingers in the air.
I blink at her, processing the unexpected verdict.
"Yeah?" I ask, unsure whether to feel relieved or brace for round two.
She nods once, firm and composed. "Mm-hmm. You've made me proud."
I pause, a grin tugging at my lips. Pride from my mum doesn't come in bulk; it's scraped together in the trenches of her expectations. "That's… great to hear."
Then, as she gathers her first aid kit, she drops a casual bomb with the same tone someone might use to ask you to pass the salt. "When he wakes up, ask him if he can still feel his arms and legs."
My grin evaporates. "What? Wait, are you saying he could be… paralysed?"
Her mouth says no but her head is doing this slow, ambiguous bob as if she's not quite ruling it out. She flicks invisible hair over her shoulder, gives me the two finger 'watching you' gesture, and floats out of the room like nothing strange was just said.
I stare after her stunned.
Once she's gone, I shake my head, dismissing her peculiar exit. Then I glance at Dominic.
He's still lying there with his messy hair, bandaged and in my bed. A reality that feels weirder the longer I stare at it. He's so still it unnerves me, the rise and fall of his chest the only confirmation that I'm not just hallucinating him into existence.
I purse my lips, unsure of where to start.
With two fingers, I poke his shoulder. Nothing.
I nudge him again, slightly harder. Still nothing.
I try shaking him gently, as if coaxing a stubborn vending machine that owes me a snack but he stays stubbornly asleep, his head flopping sideways like a doll. His hair is still damp, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his lips are parted just enough to make it look like he's about to deliver a snarky remark.
"Dominic?"
Then it happens. A twitch.
Barely noticeable at first—just the tiniest scrunch of his nose, like someone remembering a bad smell from a dream.
I lean closer.
His eyes flutter once, twice and then crack open slowly, unfocused and glassy with confusion.
He groans, and I instantly lean away from him, staring down with a mix of relief and dread. His arm sluggishly moves up to swipe across his face, sending the gel pack tumbling to the floor with a thud.
I exhale a breath.
Arms have been confirmed to be functional.
Now legs.
I bend down, scoop up the gel pack, and toss it gently onto my bedside table.
"Fuck," he mutters through clenched teeth.
"Welcome back," I say quietly, though my heart is pounding.
His head jerks slightly, clearly not expecting company.
His brows knit into a scowl as his voice comes out raspy, "Why does everything hurt?"
"Well…"
He catches sight of his bandaged hands. His brows draw into a stormy knot, and there's a flicker of unease in his dark eyes. "What the… why do I have—?"
"My mum patched you up," I interject quickly. "Remember I told you she's a physician?"
He stares at me still dazed, still suspended somewhere between reality and a slow processing dream. Then his eyes start to narrow into two venomous slits, sharp and familiar. It seems the memory has returned.
And with it, his accusatory tone. "You slammed the window down against my fingers."
"Yeah, I know." I glance at his bandaged hands and wince. "I'm sorry. You might not believe this, but I actually didn't do it on purpose."
His face doesn't soften, not even a millimeter.
I retreat into myself, staring at my socks.
Then I remember Amma's words.
Ask him if he can still feel his arms and legs.
I clear my throat awkwardly. "Um… speaking of your everything… are all the parts you're supposed to have operational?"
Dominic squints. "What?"
"Can you feel your legs?"
Dominic raises a brow, clearly thrown off. "Are you checking if I'm paralysed?"
"Just… routine concern," I lie, horribly.
He blinks at me, head still fogged. "How would I even know?"
I hesitate. "Well… can you feel this?"
I poke his leg lightly, as if afraid it might break under pressure.
"Feel what?"
"The poke. I just poked you."
His face pales. "I didn't… feel that."
The air leaves my lungs in a single terrifying burst. My heart leaps into percussion mode, thudding against my ribcage. Amma's going to have to revive me at this rate.
Is he actually paralysed?
Just as I lift my foot to bolt for the door, something in the atmosphere shifts the second his fingers unexpectedly wrap around my wrist firmly. His warm hand yanks me back, quick and decisive, with just enough force.
I yelp ungracefully and stumble forward, crashing against him in a messy heap of limbs and breath. My knees land awkwardly on either side of his hips, hands bracing against his chest. The contact is instantly jarring.
I freeze.
Our bodies are tangled, pressed together, and his sharp breath flutters against my cheek. My hair spills down like a curtain, forming a cocoon of intimacy around us. Suddenly, in this small enclosure, the outside world doesn't exist anymore.
My wide eyes meet his and everything stops.
His stare holds me like an anchor, intense and frighteningly focused. There's something unreadable and bare in his eyes.
I should look away.
I know I should.
But I don't.
My chest heaves, lungs begging for calm, but my heart is slamming so violently I swear it echoes in my bones. His own breathing is just as ragged, and every time his chest lifts beneath mine, I feel it.
His hand rests on my hip. Not forceful. Just there. Possessive in its stillness. The other is still latched around my wrist, as if he lets go, I'll vanish. My fingers, traitorous and trembling, find their way to his shoulder and settle there.
The moment holds a pulse, a rhythm of its own.
Strange and surreal and charged.
And then I bite the inside of my lip.
It's instinctual, a thing I do whenever I get really nervous, and it sets something off. His eyes flicker downward, tracing the motion with a softness that's completely at odds with the person I know him to be. That single glance shatters whatever strange spell we've slipped under.
I blink rapidly, reality barrelling back in.
What the hell am I doing?
The panic returns like a slap.
I scramble off him with a speed that borders on clumsy, avoiding his eyes. My breath catches, skin flushed hot, heart still racing as if it missed the memo about the ending of this scene.
Dominic doesn't speak; he just licks his bottom lip slowly and sits up with an air of practised indifference. But I see the twitch of his jaw. The way his eyes flicker everywhere but toward me.
The silence is heavy, like we both agree not to name whatever that was.
Were we under some kind of spell?
God, how did I let myself fall for a moment like that with him—Dominic Lachowski?
The human equivalent of a persistent leech, draining me of my sanity every chance he gets.
My face burns, and I clear my throat defensively.
This is definitely not okay.
My voice trembles as I stammer, "I'll just g-go and… get my mum."
I barely make it out of the room before his hand darts out and wraps around my wrist again. The contact is sudden and electrifying. I flinch instinctively, caught off guard by the speed of his reaction, but this time he doesn't drag me down with him. Just holds me briefly.
Then, just as quickly, he releases me.
His face is maddeningly unreadable, the very picture of disinterest, like none of this ever touched him. He sits upright with unnerving grace, brushing imaginary dust off his trousers, and I swear I see the ghost of a smirk flicker across his mouth. The fast switch in him is whiplash.
But as he rises, towering casually in front of me, my gaze drops right to his legs.
My jaw slackens, dumbstruck.
Wait… didn't he say that he didn't even feel the poke?
My stomach knots as the realisation hits: he lied.
My eyes narrow into slits and I toss him a dry, unimpressed glare.
"You're really clumsy," he mutters nonchalantly.
I fold my arms, irritation prickling under my skin. "You're the one who yanked me onto you."
He tilts his head lazily, like I'm amusing. "No, you're the one tripping over nothing."
My brows shoot up. "Are you trying to gaslight me?"
"That's not a thing." He looks off to the side, as if the conversation is beneath him.
"That's what people say when they're trying to gaslight someone."
He doesn't speak right away. Instead, he adjusts his posture like he's trying to reclaim control of the situation or maybe just himself. He runs a hand through his tousled hair and exhales through his nose.
"I'm not clumsy if you grab me out of nowhere," I snap, voice tight and pointed.
His brow lifts, mockery teasing the curve of his mouth. "I grabbed you because you were about to bolt."
"And then you yanked me! What was I supposed to do? Defy gravity?"
His tone shifts, low and clipped. "I was trying to stop you. You're the one who freaked out and decided to straddle and fondle me like it didn't matter."
My stomach flips. "I wasn't fondling you."
His eyes finally find mine, quiet calculation threaded with something dangerously unreadable.
"Then what do you call what you were doing to my chest with your hand?"
I feel my throat tighten.
The memory of my fingers on his chest burns through me with the suddenness of a slap. He watches me—no, dissects me—like he's trying to map every flinch, every breath, every unresolved thought.
Then he tilts his head slightly.
"You're unbelievable," I mutter, trying to calm the furious blush creeping up my neck. "Why the hell did you lie about not feeling the poke? I was actually scared. I thought I hurt you."
"For amusement, I guess," he replies deadpan without even missing a beat. Like it's the most reasonable excuse in the world.
I shoot him a glare. "It wouldn't have been funny if it were real. Imagine being both spineless and ball-less."
His lips twitch, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Interesting choice of words. You talk a lot about my balls for someone who's supposedly turned off by me."
"I do not," I say quickly, maybe a little too quickly.
"Yes, you do," he says coolly, his voice dipped in velvet sarcasm. "It's almost a motif in our conversations now. You should trademark that."
I blink, stunned by his shamelessness and the sheer absurdity of the turn this conversation is taking.
"You were literally pretending to be paralysed," I shoot back, arms flailing. "I was about to go fetch my mum."
"Concerned for me?" He smirks like I just confessed a crush. "You do care."
"That's not—ugh!" I throw my arms up, spin away from him, and mutter, "You know what? I'm going to start charging you a fine every time you're insufferable. By tomorrow, you'll be bankrupt."
Behind me, I hear him letting out a snort like someone thoroughly enjoying this.
I pause, grit my teeth, and toss a dry glance over my shoulder.