"What about these?"

"What the fuck is that?"

Offended, Newt eyes the piece of clothing in his hands. "Jeans?"

"Those are ugly."

"You're ugly."

"I want these!" Thomas jumps between us with a pair of gigantic sunglasses. They're black, dangling off the edge of his nose. "Ew, what are those pants?"

"Right?" I throw my hands in the air. "Put those away, Newt. We're not even shopping for me. We're here for you because you need the makeover, not us."

Fry casts a glances at us. "I'm not paying for the plastic surgery."

"Plastic surgery?" Newt repeats loudly. A few employees look up. Thomas shushes him. "Why do I need plastic surgery?"

"You don't. We never said you did. Fry just assumes you do because you're ugly in his chocolate, sun-kissed, dazzling gold eyes," I sigh out. "You just need a new wardrobe. The rest is fine."

"Is it, though?" Thomas crosses his arms, inspecting Newt by glaring up and down.

"Perhaps he should get Alby's haircut." I motion at our somewhat bald friend, who wears an expression of stone—as always.

"Oh, bloody hell no. You can touch my wardrobe, but that's it," Newt protests.

A few minutes later, we've finally picked a few things out for Newt and are standing in front of the fitting room, waiting: Thomas, Alby, Fry, and I.

"It doesn't fit," Newt calls, followed by a groan.

"Yes, it does. It's supposed to be like that. Come out."

"Already did that a few years ago," he responds. "I will put something else on—"

"Come out of the fitting room," Alby corrects.

With a deep exhale, Newt appears in front of us, holding the waistband of his jeans like his life depends on it.

"Remove those hands," I order.

"Do you want me to stand in my boxers?" Newt hisses. "I told you it's too big."

"No, it's just right. It might sag a little bit, but that's what we're going for. You have expensive underwear. Why not show the people?"

Newt looks inside the pants, up at Fry, and back inside the pants. "Expensive underwear? Showing it off? What the—"

Thomas grabs his wrists out of nowhere, pulling them so far up that Newt is unable to hold his pants up. One second later, they're on the floor and he's standing in his boxers.

"Okay, maybe you do need a belt." I take one of the belts we chose from the pile of other stuff, handing it to Newt. His expression is pointed as he slides it into the waistline.

"This is not my style." He spins around. "Why can't I wear my old clothes?"

"Because if you want to attract attention from girls—I mean, boys, sorry, forgot—you need to be well-dressed."

"You know nothing about the male gaze," Newt spits out. "They don't like saggy pants."

"So what do they like?"

"Eh..." he trails off for a moment, then confidently says, "Vintage clothes. Lots of open button-ups and brown pants. Not skinny, nor saggy. Just in between."

Thomas groans. "Alright. Hurry up and go look for those clothes. I'll go fit more sunglasses."

"I'll come along with you before you set something on fire," I offer. Before Thomas can protest, I already follow him to the rack of accessories.

"Where's the male rack?"

Thomas shrugs. "No one will notice if we wear female sunglasses. Or handbags. Or jewelry."

"...I think they will." I nudge him in the side.

Every item that contains even the slightest hint of red catches my eyes. Luciana loves red. But jewelry is too intimate and a handbag is too much. A pair of sunglasses is a simple gift, right? Subtle. No one has to know I don't mean it in a friendly way.

"What do you think of these?" I show Thomas the pair of Tom Ford sunglasses, featuring an oval-shaped red frame with brown lenses.

"Okay, maybe those are a bit too girly for your personal style, but I mean, if you like them—"

"Not for me," I groan.

"Ohh, for Lucy!" Thomas's eyes wide. I hit the back of his head with a flat hand: he said that too loudly. What if she somehow happens to be here? "Sorry." He rubs his neck. "Erm, if you should get those? Hmm... I don't know."

"You were supposed to tell me it's the best idea I've ever had."

"But it's not. I think she'll be weirded out and I think Dariel will kill you."

"It's just a pair of sunglasses."

"Tom Ford sunglasses," Thomas corrects. "Look at the price, buddy."

"Two hundred," I read. "That's not too bad. Like, what if she wants me after I give a lot of presents? Maybe that's the key."

"Maybe that's realizing she's a gold digger."

"And?"

He shakes his head. "Your brother has more money than you, so it won't matter anyway. The least thing that can happen is that she finds out you exist and aren't a waste of space."

"Thanks."

"Just saying." Thomas steals the sunglasses from me and puts them back. "Forget it. I bet you don't even have the courage to give it to her."

"What do you mean? I wouldn't buy it if I'm not even planning on giving it to her."

Triumphant, he raises an eyebrow. "You have a whole dresser full with presents you never gave because you were too scared."

"But... but those weren't as expensive! I won't waste all that money on these just to have them collect dust."

"Hey, I'm not stopping you. Just giving advice on what I think is best. Dream about it for a night. If you're motivated enough to return tomorrow, then it's worth it. If not, then you should forget it." 

"Okay, okay, I'll do that." I nod. "We should head back to Newt. See what clothes he got for the 'male gaze' or whatever that is."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

My mouth falls open. "Mom said what?"

"That you're too shy to ask us for dinner," Dariel repeats, his voice mocking. A low chuckle escapes from him. "It's hilarious. But, lucky for you, Lucy couldn't resist your 'shyness' and agreed. That's why I need you to come with. Or else, you can walk to her house."

We went shopping on Friday, after a whole week of school. Today, it's Sunday again. I went back to the store this morning and bought the sunglasses with the last money in my bank account. I have to wait three more days for pocket money—and it's likely to be the last pocket money I ever get. Dad thinks I should get a job at this point. Honestly, it makes sense. And Mom will keep giving me money anyway.

"Alright. Just wait a minute." I rush up the stairs, pulling my shirt off as I move. I nearly fall back down the stairs. My fingers grip around my toothbrush as I look around for better clothes.

Toothpaste drips onto the first piece that I like, so I give up on that one. After way too long, I end up going for a pair of gray jeans, along with a plain red sweater, my white undershirt visible at the bottom. Rinsing the toothpaste out of my mouth, I fix my hair, then head for the sunglasses.

The cashier put it in a fancy box, almost as big as a shoe box. It's red, engraved with golden letters: 'Tom Ford'. I dump it inside a plastic bag before Dariel can see it.

"You done?" He looks up from his watch.

I nod. Together, we walk out of the house, into his car and on our way to Luciana. My heart pounds in my chest, both at the thought of seeing her and from the adrenaline that ran through me while I rushed to get ready. Dariel taps on the wheel with his fingers, the ring clanking against it.

I hate that ring. It's a promise ring. He shares it with Luciana. Both of them always wear it.

"Keep calm, please," he tells me, softer than I'm used to. "Sunday nights are always calm at Lucy's. We eat dinner in silence with background music. Don't change the ritual."

I nod heavily. Of course not. Luciana hates changes in routine. My mind begs me to ask Dariel what else I should keep in mind, but I press my lips together to suppress the question.

When we arrive at Luciana's, the house smells faintly of vanilla, cinnamon, and something else—probably tonight's dinner. She opens the door almost immediately, her eyes lighting up when she spots Dariel. She leans forward to give him a quick kiss before greeting me with a polite smile.

"Come in," she says. "You're just on time."

I trail behind them, clutching the plastic bag as if it might somehow shield me from the awkwardness I always feel around her. Luciana's presence gets weak without her even trying, and it's the only thing capable of getting me weak. It's the little things about her that stick with me.

We settle at the table, which is already set with candles and dishes. Dariel pulls out Luciana's chair for her—something I hate noticing—and takes his place beside her. I sit across from them, the bag pressed against my leg under the table.

Dinner is, as Dariel warned, calm. Luciana insists on silence, reserved for the soft classical music playing in the background. I can't stop my eyes from darting to her every few seconds, watching the way she cuts her food or literally just the sight of her hands. Slim, long fingers. It matches her face and figure so perfectly... I force my eyes back on my food.

Dariel notices, of course, but instead of commenting, he sends me a look, one that's both knowing and vaguely irritated. I wonder if he knows how much I adore his girlfriend.

I don't think so. He'd be more protective if he knew. He's definitely confront me if he knew.

"So," Luciana says after we're finished eating. "Dessert?"

"I'll grab it," Dariel offers. He brushes a hand over her shoulder as he walks off, leaving me alone with her. My palms start to sweat.

She smiles at me. "I'm glad you came. I feel like I haven't seen you in forever and your mom's text was just so sweet. And don't you worry, you can always ask. No need to be shy."

Today, when Alby called me shy because of the way I act around her, the mall's staff had to give us a warning because I hit him that hard. But I don't mind what Luciana calls me, even if it's inaccurate.

"Oh, uh, yeah." My voice sounds unnatural to my own ears. "It's been a while."

She tilts her head slightly. The dark waves splash over her shoulder. Once, she said she doesn't like her hair because it's always frizzy and greasy, but I've never seen it in that state— "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." I shift in my seat. Now's the moment, isn't it? I can't chicken out and let the sunglasses vanish in my dresser. I take a deep breath and reach under the table. "Actually, I, um... I got you something."

Downfall. I shouldn't stammer around her. This makes me seem weak. I should be stronger than Dariel. Should be confident.

Her brows lift in surprise. "You got me something?"

"Yeah. It's not a big deal or anything." My fingers fumble as I pull out the box. "I just saw these and thought of you."

Her gaze flickers between me and the box before she carefully lifts the lid. When she sees the sunglasses, her lips part a bit, and her voice falls away in a small gasp.

"Wow, these are beautiful!" She looks up with such surprise and excitement that it's worth every dollar. "But... why?"

"I don't know." I shrug, trying to play it cool despite the heat creeping up my neck. "I just thought they'd suit you. And, uh, you like red. And... summer is in... five months, so you should be prepared, right?"

She picks up the sunglasses, turning them over in her hands. The gold detailing catches the light of the candles. I see the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corners of her lips.

"Thank you." She looks back up at me. "Really. They're perfect. I'll try them on in front of a mirror tonight, okay? I'll send a picture or something—unless you want to judge in real life. Whatever, we'll see."

I open my mouth to say something else, but Dariel walks back into the room, carrying a tray with dessert. He glances between us, his eyes narrowing slightly when he notices the box.

"What's this?" he asks, setting the tray down. Not harshly, not angry, just curiously.

"Minho got me sunglasses," Luciana says, holding them up for him to see with the same excitement smile.

He smiles back, but it's definitely forced. "That's... thoughtful." He looks at me, his eyes speaking before he does. What the fuck, why would you gift my girlfriend something expensive like that? You're trying to steal her, aren't you, little—okay, that's not what he's thinking, but the idea of it gives me shivers anyway.

"But a bit extravagant..." his voice fades. I frown. His voice faded because he was hesitant. He didn't want to sound rude. Is it because of his girlfriend's presence or because he genuinely appreciates me getting her something? Or he's worried about my finances. Probably not.

"I just—" I start, but Luciana cuts me off.

"I love them," she says firmly. "Thank you, Minho."

The look she gives me is warm. I allow myself to believe that maybe, I made the right choice for once.