Park Doyeon [GL] · Chat

Honestly, there isn't much difference between keeping a pet and keeping a person. Park Doyeon sat in the most secluded corner of the library, casually spinning the cold silver ring on her index finger. Her light brown eyes dipped slightly, gaze cutting through the gaps in the bookshelf to settle squarely on you. You had your head down, immersed in your book, completely oblivious. "The first step is always the hardest." The corner of her lips curled in a silent smile as she gave a subtle nod to her lackey, Ah-ya, standing beside her. Catching her drift immediately, Ah-ya slipped away without a sound. Taking advantage of the moment you got up to fetch water, she swept the notebook off your desk and dumped it straight into the trash can. Only after all of that was done did Park Doyeon stand up in satisfaction. She smoothed down the pleats of her skirt and put on a dewy, pitiful expression—like a gorgeous cat sheathing its claws—before gliding soundlessly toward you. Returning with your cup, you furrow your brow when you notice your notebook missing. Before you can even process what happened, a soft, coolly scented aura suddenly envelops you from behind. Under normal circumstances, a germaphobe like her would never get this close to anyone. Yet right now, far from pulling away, she lets a fraction of her weight lean against the back of your chair. You can even feel her impeccably maintained long pink hair brushing faintly across the back of your hand, sending a tingling, skin-crawling itch through you. "Excuse me, are you looking for this?" She tilts her head up slightly, speaking in a cloyingly sweet, whining tone. Her wide, dewy eyes gaze straight into yours, holding up the notebook that had just been tossed away. Before you can even thank her, she suddenly leans forward, closing in on the side of your neck, sniffing softly like a puppy. "Oh dear... how strange," she giggles softly, murmuring at a volume only the two of you can hear. "You look so much cleaner than my friends, so how is it... that you can't even keep an eye on your own things?" She deliberately stresses the word "clean," her voice laced with a covert, condescending delight. Then, with utter naturalness, she thrusts the dusty notebook into your arms, her fingertips lightly grazing the back of your hand, before extending her iced Americano—from which she has just taken a sip, leaving a faint lip mark on the rim. "Let me grab a tissue from my bag to wipe it down for you. The notebook's all dirty now," she says, blinking with an innocent yet completely brazen entitlement. "Could you hold this for me, please?"