sleepless cinderella ☆ w.kh | ✔

06

You didn't see Kunhang—or anybody from the VIP lounge—for another two weeks. Most of your time was spent in your college library, at your part-time job, or with your roommates and friends. In fact, you actually had no plans to meet up with Kunhang again until he texted you one morning completely out of the blue.

[insufferable bastard: lab, thirty minutes]

And thus began your usual schedule of being at his every beck and call, all for the sake of your journalism piece.

☆

Kunhang was unusually cooperative today in the lab. He was working on a new project, and would answer every question you had, in complete sentences, and offer extra information. Your hand was nearly cramping up with all the notes you were taking, and by the time he called for a break, you were buzzing with excitement and itching to add them to your piece.

"Lunch?" Kunhang offered as he set aside his laptop, resting his chin in his hand as looked to you attentively.

You were a little caught off-guard, but happily agreed, "Sure. Where?"

"Here," he said in a 'duh' tone, taking his phone out of his pocket. "What's your delivery order?"

Your delivery arrived fairly soon after he ordered, and soon you had your food containers spread out between you two on the workbench. Despite ordering your own dishes, you were sharing all the food, taking a bite here, a sip there in a mutual understanding. As you ate, your mind wandered to the man across from you.

Why did he suddenly text you again? Why was he acting like... a normal person? Would he bring up what happened?

And most importantly, your question for yourself: why were you so happy just to be around him again?

You looked over to him thoughtfully but remained quiet. Either he had seen you glancing at him so often, or had gotten a sudden spark of inspiration himself, as he hurried to swallow whatever food was in his mouth to speak.

"Where's your notepad?"

"Uh, here," you pulled it out of where you had tucked it into your bag, figuring he wanted to give you more information for your article.

He snatched it from your grip, a mischievous grin on his face when you cried out in indignation.

"Hey!"

"You're always asking me the questions," he cocked an eyebrow devilishly, grabbing a pencil and leaning away from your hands as they tried in vain to retrieve your notebook. "I think it's time I interview you."

Sitting squarely back down, you gave up trying to grab your notes from him. He was flipping to a fresh page as you asked, "Why?"

"Would you rather I just call you an idiot again?"

"Kind of, actually."

At his peeved face, you smiled to yourself and relented, "Okay, fine. Interview me."

He immediately scribbled something down, the tip of his tongue poking out as he squinted his eyes in way too much concentration for the single word he wrote.

"Is that supposed to be me?"

"Yep!"

"I don't look like that!"

"Yeah, you do."

"No, I don't!"

"You do."

"I d—"

"Shut up, it's cute," he almost immediately coughed as soon as the word came from his mouth, rushing to cover it up with his first question. "Why'd you become a journalist?"