Chapter 39 39: Don't Look At Me Like That
Baby felt cornered, angry.
He gently placed his cup down on the soft grass and stood, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
Did he want to leave? Yes.
But he wasn't going to leave. He didn't want Saint to realise how uncomfortable his presence made him.
He pulled a cigarette out, taking his lighter to the bottom to light it.
One flick, nothing.
Second flick, nothing.
Third flick... "Fuck," Baby murmured, throwing the malfunctioning lighter onto the grass.
"Here," Saint stepped forward, flicking on his lighter and raising it toward Baby's cigarette.
Baby leaned his head away, moving out of Saint's reach.
Saint sighed and gently grabbed Baby's wrist, pushing the lighter into his hand and closing Baby's fingers around it.
"Use it if you want," Saint calmly spoke, releasing Baby's hand slowly.
The contact had left them both shaken. Baby was reeling, fighting to breathe properly, while Saint was possessed by a possessive demon, urging him to hold Baby and never let him go.
That exchange was the longest and closest they'd had the entire day, and if it didn't feel fucking electrifying.
Slowly, Baby stared down at the lighter like it was a damn detonator.
Because that tiny spark?
Yeah… that was Saint.
All heat. All danger. All promise of destruction.
And Baby—God help him—felt like the cigarette.
Made to burn.
Made to be held between those rough fingers.
Made to be ruined by the very flame he kept reaching for.
Saint wasn't just temptation; he was ignition.
And Baby?
He was already smoking.
He didn't want this.
This closeness, this communication. He thought he had escaped it by leaving the house, yet there they were, standing side by side to each other with the air thickened with unspoken tension, guilt, hurt, and a desire neither of them dared to acknowledge.
If only Wong hadn't dragged him into this mess of a party, he wouldn't have been here with the man he was trying to get away from.
"Baby," Saint suddenly called, breaking the thick silence between them.
Baby went still.
Of course, Saint would whisper his name like that — low, warm, entirely too close — making Baby's pulse kick like he'd been shocked.
He slowly flicked the lighter on, lighting his cigarette, the motion slow, controlled, emotionless.
But inside?
Chaos.
Saint's scent lingered in the air — crisp, clean, with a warm undertone he refused to name. The same scent that had wrapped around him in front of his door last night, the same one that had crawled under his skin during practice.
He forced himself to look forward.
Eyes on the trees.
Mind on the music booming from the party.
Heart—
…betraying him like it always did.
Saint didn't move beside him, but Baby felt the tension pouring off him like heat from a furnace. The air between them was tight, humming, dangerous — the exact opposite of the "we killed the attraction" lie they were both clinging to.
Baby lifted the lighter, rolling it between his fingers.
It slipped.
Saint's hand shot out, catching it before it hit the floor.
Their fingers brushed.
Barely.
Just a spark.
A stupid, microscopic touch—
—but Baby felt it like a hit to the spine.
He jerked his hand back instantly, as though Saint had burned him.
Saint didn't react, didn't flinch, didn't even look at him.
He simply lifted the lighter back on Baby, offering it to him, his jaw tight, his posture painfully controlled.
Too controlled.
The kind of control that told Baby Saint was one breath away from unravelling.
"Thanks," Baby muttered stiffly, not looking at him.
'He spoke to me!' Saint's mind rattled, but he didn't show it.
Saint didn't answer — but his throat bobbed with a swallow.
And Baby hated that he noticed.
Hated that he cared.
Hated that Saint's apology from earlier still sat heavy in his chest, warm and intrusive.
He shoved the lighter into his pocket as if it offended him.
The music droned on at the pool, the people blissfully unaware that the two co-captains behind the building were silently combusting.
Baby clenched his jaw, forcing his attention to the smoke leaving his cigarette.
He would not think about Saint.
He would not think about how Saint whispered his name.
He would not think about—
A soft inhale beside him.
Baby immediately froze.
Saint was looking at him.
Not openly.
Not directly.
But from the corner of his eye, from the tiniest angle — studying him like Baby was some difficult equation he couldn't solve.
Baby didn't turn his head, but he could feel it.
That look.
That pull.
That gravity.
He forced out a small scoff, leaning back on the wall.
"Stop staring at me," he muttered under his breath.
Saint didn't deny it.
Didn't apologise.
He just whispered back, voice barely above a breath — dark, tired, and honest in a way that cut straight to the bone. "I don't mean to."
Baby's cigarette almost slipped in his grip.
His pulse spiked.
Saint kept staring at Baby, his presence growing overwhelmingly strong.
Baby's heart kept betraying him.
And the part of his face where Saint was staring at burned hot like the cherry of his cigarette was pressed firmly against his skin.
"I waited," Saint spoke again, his voice calm.
Silence.
He was expecting the silence, but he was surprised to find that it still burned his soul no matter how many times Baby ignored him.
This wasn't right, but for Christ's sake, he had no idea how to stop the feelings growing by the second in his chest.
He sighed and leaned off the wall, walking over to stand in front of Baby, "I waited at the library. When I gave you that write-up at the cafe, asking to meet at the library..." he paused as Baby easily blew his smoke toward him, acting as if Saint was one of the trees standing before him.
Saint didn't react, he held Baby's gaze this time, his eyes unreadable.
"We still have Shannon's project. It's almost the end of the month, I thought we'd –" Baby's scoff cut him off mid-sentence.
Baby straightened, held Saint's gaze for a second, and then he walked away.
He had given an audience, waiting to see if the bastard would apologise for his hurtful words last night. Instead, he was there to talk about some stupid project.
He should never have stayed back to listen to Saint, he should have known he'd blow it up.
Siant stood there, suddenly feeling the cold seep into his bones as Baby walked out on him. His words died in his throat, and very quietly, the accusing voice spoke in his head.
'You should have led with a fucking apology,'
Saint sighed, feeling tired.
Why was he even trying?
What was he even doing following Baby around like some loser?
He shouldn't care. He definitely shouldn't give a fuck about Baby's feelings, and if Baby wanted to put himself in trouble, he was free to do so.
Saint was tired, and he was heading home.
He turned, his steps determined as he walked out from behind the building, toward the party.
However, his steps slowed the moment he saw Baby now floating on the yellow Derby duck Stella had used earlier.
"Didn't he say he didn't know how to swim? What the fuck is he doing in the fucking pool?" He muttered, completely stopping beside a blue table that was filled with drinks.
He should leave. But he didn't.
He stood still, watching Baby smoking on top of the inflated duck, his eyes closed and his body relaxed.
Saint knew Baby had chosen the place where he couldn't meet him again. He was back to avoiding him and he wondered why the guy couldn't just stop acting like a child and talk to him.
He has never craved to hear someone's voice the way he was craving Baby's.
He used to think that getting Baby to shut up would be bliss, but when it actually happened, he felt tortured.
Suddenly, a movement underwater caught his eye.
It was the same girl who was chatting with Baby behind the house. She was slowly swimming toward the inflated duck.
"Everyone! Free Molly!" Jae suddenly shouted from the corner where Baby had been standing at the beginning.
Like moths to flames, everyone ran towards Jae, their faces already looking excited for the euphoria they were about to feel from the substance.
Splash!
A sound that got only Saint's attention.
He snapped his head toward the pool and by God... his vision went blank.
The duck was deflated and Baby was flapping his arms in distress under the water while the girl now stood beside the pool, recording him and laughing.
"Come on, Baby, stop acting and swim!" She laughed, clearly drunk.
Two options: bash her head by the edge of the pool until she bleeds out, or, jump tight in and save Baby, who had suddenly stopped moving.
The second option was more reasonable because Saint was already running toward the pool, pushing tables and chairs out of the way as he ran.