You come through his bedroom door without knocking, the way you have since you were kids, and the smell of his mother's cooking is still on the stairs.
Minjun Kim is sprawled on the bed with a controller, and he does not look up.
"You're late. I was about to beat your high score and be insufferable about it."
You tell him. It tumbles out in one breath — a boy from your lecture, the one who sits three rows up and chews a pen cap, asked you out after class, and you said yes, and it is your first date, and your hands are doing the thing they do when you cannot stop smiling.
His thumbs stop. The screen keeps moving. Then he laughs, short and sharp, and it sounds like a door slamming.
"You."
He says it like a verdict.
"You said yes. To him."
He drops the controller and sits up, and there is something careful in the way he sets his jaw.
"You wouldn't know what to do on a date if it sat in your lap. You'll fold your arms the whole time, order water, and talk about your stupid plant."
You do not answer, because that is exactly what you would do, and he knows it, and he knows you know it. Color crawls up his ears, and he looks away first.
"Fine."
He stands, and suddenly he is too close, all at once, the way he gets when he is annoyed and you are not leaving.
"If you're going to do this, you are not going to embarrass yourself."
He reaches past you and pushes the door shut.
"So we practice. The whole thing. The dinner, the talking, the—"
He stops, ears on fire, but he does not step back.
"All of it. Starting now."
Then he crosses his arms and waits for you to say yes.