LYHM | YG [✔]

15. Yeonjun/Beomgyu

Yeonjun

Keeho:

Go easy on him, Jun. I caught him with a bottle of whiskey this morning.

I pause on my way to the driver's side, my hackles raising as I look at Beomgyu through the windshield. He looks fine—sort of—but I still check his eyes, trying to decide whether the redness is because he's upset or because he relapsed.

Before I can ask, another text pops up.

Keeho:

He didn't drink any.

Yeonjun:

You sure?

Keeho:

Yeah. I stopped him. I haven't taken my eyes off him since.

Yeonjun:

Yeah, I bet you haven't, you fucker.

He hits me back with three laughing emojis, and I pocket my phone, getting inside the car.

I wasn't planning on bringing Beomgyu with me today, but when I came downstairs and found him and Keeho on the couch together, playing video games and talking about me like they're besties or some shit, I acted without thinking.

Fucking Keeho.

He's not usually this nice. Why he's got a soft spot for Beomgyu of all people, no fucking clue.

I eye Beomgyu's form while I drive, pissed at how hot he looks today even when he's a broken mess inside.

That's why.

*****

Beomgyu

We're sitting in complete silence, without even the radio to keep us company while I stare straight ahead at the busy highway.

"You know where I'm taking you?" Yeonjun finally asks.

I nod and continue biting my nails in the passenger seat, my anxiety growing as we pass the sign for the beach off the next exit.

"She told you," he guesses, and I nod again.

"She told me—"

"Everything," he finishes, then adds, "I get it, Beom."

I look out the window and stab my fingernail into my bleeding cuticles, whipping my head around when he snatches my left hand and yanks it over to his side. Keeping his eyes forward, he locks our fingers together like he did the other night, his thumb moving over the edge of mine.

I swallow and sit still for as long as I can, which isn't even a full minute. When I can't take it anymore, I test the waters and try to slip my hand free, but he doesn't let me, tightening his grip and sealing his fingers over my knuckles. He doesn't say anything, but I can tell he's up in his head, deep in thought while he drives us to where we're going.

"My parents are assholes," he says randomly.

"Okay..."

"You know my dad's been calling me nonstop since Friday night?"

"To give you shit about getting suspended," I assume, not really surprised by that.

I bet he's furious. All that guy cares about is his image. He has to be the best at everything, have the most money, the biggest house, the most expensive car, the most successful, straight and narrow kids, emphasis on the straight part.