Chapter 13: How Does He Know My Bra Size? NO THANKS
It started with laundry.
Like most of my disasters.
I was carrying a basket down the hall, trying not to flash anyone with my loose tank top, when suddenly—
"Need help?"
Ren. Behind me. Again.
I jumped like I'd been caught smuggling secrets.
"I got it," I said too quickly. "These are just... normal... clothes."
He raised an eyebrow. "You said that like it's not true."
I bolted for the laundry room.
---
I loaded the machine like I was defusing a bomb.
Shut the lid. Pressed start. Done.
Crisis averted.
Until—
"Is this yours?"
Ren held up a bra.
**MY. BRA.**
It was black. Lacy. Betrayal in fabric form.
I froze.
"Put that down," I whispered.
He examined it. Calm. Like a scientist.
Then—smirked.
"34B?"
---
My soul left my body.
"HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?!"
He shrugged. "I work with audio. I have an eye for proportions."
"THAT MAKES ZERO SENSE."
He stepped closer. "You wear loose tops, Noa. But your outline gives you away."
"I'M GOING TO FILE A COMPLAINT."
"To who? HR? We don't even get paid properly."
---
I lunged, trying to grab the bra.
He dodged. Effortlessly.
"Ren!"
He held it above his head. "Say please."
"Give. It. Back."
"Fine."
He tossed it—onto my head.
I yelped. YANKED it off. Stuffed it back into the basket like it was radioactive.
He just watched. Amused. Dangerous.
"You're a menace," I muttered.
He smiled. "You're the one who brought lingerie to a work trip."
---
I was about to punch him (with love), when he suddenly got serious.
"But seriously," he said. "You should lock your laundry. There's a creep on this floor."
My breath caught. "Wait—what?"
"Yeah," he said. "Last week someone found underwear in the hallway. Could be a staffer."
That's when I realized—
Ren wasn't teasing.
He was warning me.
---
My chest tightened.
"…Thanks."
He nodded. Then his eyes drifted—again—to the top of my tank, which had slipped a bit from all the chaos.
"Don't stare," I snapped, pulling it up.
He didn't apologize.
"Don't wear gravity-defying outfits if you want peace," he said.
Then he walked out, hands in pockets.
And I just stood there. Flushed. Flustered. And very, very aware—
That the man knew my bra size.
Without ever having touched me.
**Yet.**
I was tired. Like, soul-deep tired.
We had a 16-hour shoot, the rain from last night soaked through my bones, and the moment Ren almost kissed me? Yeah, my brain was still buffering.
So when my roommate texted that our room had a leaking ceiling, I had no choice.
"Hey…" I messaged Ren. "Can I crash in your room tonight? Just the couch."
He replied in 0.2 seconds.
**"Sure."**
I overanalyzed the period.
Not "Sure :)"
Not "Sure lol"
Just… **Sure.**
---
When I got there, his room was cleaner than expected. Not neat—just… disciplined.
Ren handed me a blanket without a word, then sat back down at his laptop like I wasn't spiraling 4 feet away from him.
"You can take the bed," he said. "I'll sleep on the floor."
"What? No. I'll take the floor—"
"Noa."
Just one word. Stern. Final.
Like he was already used to winning arguments we hadn't had yet.
---
So I took the bed.
He laid down on the floor with a pillow and one long sigh.
I turned off the lights.
Silence.
Then—
"Your breathing's fast," he said into the dark.
"Maybe because I'm in a bed that smells like your soap."
Pause.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Nope."
"Same."
We didn't say anything else. But I swear I could feel his presence below me like heat rising from the floorboards.
---
At some point, I fell asleep.
And apparently… **talked in it.**
Because the next morning, I woke up to Ren sitting at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, smirking.
"What," I said groggily.
"You talk in your sleep."
I sat up. Alarm bells in my head.
"What did I say?"
"Nothing important."
I narrowed my eyes. "Ren…"
He leaned closer. Close enough for me to see the mischief in his face.
"You said my name."
---
I almost self-destructed.
"No I didn't."
"You did."
"Lies."
"You dragged the 'n' too."
I hid under the blanket like it was a shield against reality.
He chuckled. That deep, low, smug chuckle that should be illegal before breakfast.
Then I heard him say, soft but clear:
"It was cute."
---
"Kill me," I muttered under the blanket.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you also said…"
He paused.
I peeked out. "What?"
He grinned.
"You said, *'Don't stop.'*"
I screamed internally.
"I COULD'VE BEEN DREAMING ABOUT ICE CREAM."
"Right. Sexy ice cream named Ren."
---
I threw a pillow at him.
He caught it. Too easily.
"Relax," he said, standing up and stretching. "I won't tease you forever."
"Promise?"
"No."
He walked to the bathroom, glancing back once.
"Next time, if you want to say my name… just say it when you're awake."
Door closed.
And I sat there on his bed, knees to chest, face on fire.
Still tired.
Still in denial.
Still dreaming—with my eyes wide open.