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writerpeach · 1 day ago

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Margin of Error

aespa Winter x Reader

Tags: Fluff

2k words

A/N: Wrote this for a Momentous Events prompt hosted by @suchsweetstories. Thanks for putting it together! Fic's just plot and fluff, but you can find some smut if you squint. This was sitting in the freezer for a while, but it seemed appropriate to release it now, since the author graduated this weekend as well :)

A little searching, wandering—and you stumble upon a free seat with a clear view of the stage. Not too close to the crowd’s bustle; not too far that you might as well be watching the live stream. The Goldilocks zone, if you will.

The loudspeaker hisses to life with a couple of taps—metallic, a little corroded. “The degree-awarding ceremony will begin shortly,” the presenter announces.

Your eyes drift to the group gathered near the stage.

Some students are laughing, sharing final inside jokes before they go their separate ways. Others—searching the audience for familiar faces, eyes darting through rows of chairs. For you, it’s the other way around.

You scan the sea of gowns for Minjeong—but no luck.

Your phone buzzes with a text from her: “Might be a little late. Don’t freak.”

Great. Not that it surprises you by now. Late for her own graduation, of course.

It’s not worth panicking yet. Her name’s towards the end of the list, last you checked.

Besides, you’ve never done things the easy way with her. That's simply far too boring for Minjeong. A few variables off, and her name might not have been on the list at all.

Frankly, it’s a miracle she got any studying done.

—

“One last time, what’s the epsilon-delta definition of a limit?” You tap your pen on the table, trying to pull her focus back from whatever she’s staring at outside—birds, clouds, anything but the math in front of her.

Minjeong lets out a dramatic groan and drops her head to the table. “Isn’t it break time yet? I’m pretty sure we’ve been studying longer than legally allowed.”

“There’s no limit on that.” You nudge the book towards her, smiling. “But the definition of the one I asked still needs to happen.”

“Uh, let me think. The limit of a function as x approaches c is L if…” She scratches her chin for a while, then tosses her hands up in defeat.

“You skipped the part that actually defines it.”

“Didn't I say a break would help me?” she retorts. “We could play something for a bit. Might clear my head.”

You close the textbook. There's no way anything’s getting into her head in this state.

“Alright. What do you wanna do?”

She scoots her chair in. “No clue,” she says, locking eyes with you. “Was hoping you might have an idea.”

There's a glimmer in her eyes—you know it’s never good news.

“I don't like where this is going.” You look away.

She slips a hand around your waist and leans in. Her floral scent takes over your breath. “You sure about that?”

You thread fingers through her hair. “You always try to flirt your way out of studying.” An accusation—but it barely sounds like one out loud. Not when you’re being compliant, right there with her.

“Oh, not always.” Her lips curl into a smile. “Just the pretty ones distracting me, causing trouble.”

“I don’t like the plural in that.”

A soft laugh slips from her mouth. “You're the only pretty one for me, baby.” She presses her lips to your forehead.

“Knew studying at your place and not the library was a bad idea.”

She shuts you up with a kiss on your lips. Her lips are warm and sweet—you've always loved the taste. Your fingers find her chin and tilt her head towards you, the tip of her nose brushing against yours.

Her hand drifts lower, fingers trailing along your thigh, edging dangerously close.

“Minjeong…” you sigh. “We're not covering any material like this.”

“How can we if this is much more fun?” Her voice turns musical, sing-song.

You part your lips to protest, but deep inside, you can only agree. Or, heck, she’s made you. Either way: “Fine… but revise your definitions by tomorrow. We need to start with problems.”

“Let's solve this problem first.” Her hand slips beneath your waistband—the motion pulls a sharp moan from your throat.

“Fuck.”

—

The first name echoes through the room. It’s all surprisingly simple, considering the years of effort it took to get here. Your name gets called: you walk up, collect your degree, and move on. There’s some polite applause. Symbolic, mostly.

That’s how it’s supposed to go, assuming you’re around when your name is called. A small, crucial detail.

One name becomes two, then four, and before long—whole sections blur past, names checked off like errands.

Good news: they’re sticking to the order.

Bad news: almost half of the list is done, and still no sign of Minjeong.

You text her, ”Your turn’s about to come, get your butt here ASAP.”

Your phone buzzes almost instantly—maybe she’s nearby. Instead, you’re met with a: “Pick up where you left off. Continue watching: Legally Blonde.”

Thanks, but with the girl missing in action and your memories interrupting at random—you're mostly covered on the academic drama front.

You get up and rush toward the front, pushing past swathes of people, looking for someone in charge. Maybe you can convince them to push her name down the list.

Every name called shrinks the odds of her making it. She didn’t work this hard—pull all those sleepless nights—just to miss her own graduation.

But then again, Minjeong was never one to shy away from long shots.

(Mostly, cut her a little slack.)

—

“This pasta is so bland. Even the fast food place I work at has more flavor.” She drops her fork on the plate, unimpressed.

“Minjeong, you were in charge of seasoning tonight.” You stare at her, deadpan.

“Was I? Maybe that’s why we get complaints about taste all the time.” She sighs. “I’ll get the oregano. How’d your exam go?”

She walks barefoot to the kitchen, the loose hem of her t-shirt brushing just past her hips.

“Fine. That cheat sheet you scribbled extra stuff on? One of those actually came in handy.”

“So I did well to ignore your instructions.” A proud little smirk tugs at her lips as she stands leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t make it a habit.”

A buzz rattles the table. You glance at her phone, then meet her eyes. “Your Lin Alg grades are out.”

She freezes. Wipes her hands on a napkin and rushes over. The phone screen lights up her face—then drains it.

“No way…” Her shoulders slump. Head tilts to the side, heavy.

“What is it?” You have an idea, but you have to ask.

“Fucking D,” she hisses. “I'm failing this course too unless I get an A on the final.”

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You drag your fork across the plate—a soft scrape.

“At least there's still a chance,” you offer.

“A long one.”

“Minjeong.” You shrug. “You haven't exactly been a star student so far.”

“Yeah, I think the grades made that clear.” She crosses her arms. “Thanks for rubbing it in.”

“That's not what I meant, idiot.” You push your plate away. “I'm saying if you, for once, actually look at your books while studying—you might do okay. Or not. But you'll never know unless you do.”

She keeps staring at her phone, like she could will her grade to change now if she focused hard enough.

Her fingers tap slowly on the table. “Guess I have no other option now. I have to cover a semester's worth of content in 2 weeks… and somehow score an A on that.”

“Not easy, but not unheard of. Finish your dinner, and let’s get to it.”

—

“What do you mean—you can't?” you snap, voice rising.

“It should be clear what that means. I can’t change the order now.”

“It’s a...” Your eyes dart around, scrambling for an excuse. An ambulance helpline poster catches your eye.

“Medical emergency,” you blurt. “She’s in the—uh—ER right now. We can get a certificate later if anyone asks.”

The admin lady stares at you, blank. “Doesn’t sound like she’ll make it even if she’s last.”

“She might,” you say—weakly. Shouldn’t have gone with that stupid excuse.

“There’s another event booked right after. We don’t have any breathing room.”

“That sounds like irresponsible scheduling.”

She exhales sharply. “Look, these things are decided far in advance. She can get her degree later. It’s no big deal.”

Nothing left to say that won't get you kicked out. You shake your head and make your way back up the stairs to your seat, pretending you don’t want to shove the nearest wall.

You scroll through the list on your phone, flicking each name out of the frame as it’s called. Your heart skips a beat when hers slides in from the bottom. Just a few people to go.

A message from her: ”Almost there.”

“Stop wasting time typing and just get here,” you shoot back.

Time suddenly speeds up. Names roll by faster than ever. You fidget with your collar, trying to loosen it.

And then—it’s her name that's about to slide past, leave the frame.

The hall is impatient. The microphone crackles; the next name’s already loaded on the tongue of the announcer.

“Kim Minjeong.” Her name echoes through the room. Nobody steps forward.

—

“Kim Minjeong.” The voice from the laptop snaps her out of her daze. “I hope you were paying attention.”

She blinks and sits up straighter on her bed. “Yes. Yes, I was. It’s just… a lot to take in. Sorry.”

“We hate having to terminate students as much as anyone. But with some effort, you can still turn things around.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and shuts the laptop.

You dim the light and climb into bed beside her. “You doing okay?”

She drops her head to your chest, whispering, “What the fuck am I doing with my life?”

Not exactly the kind of question school prepares you for.

“It’s just a minor setback,” you murmur. Not completely truthful, but what else can you say?

“No.” Her voice catches, thin and watery. “I’m going to get kicked out of college. My parents were right all along.” She rubs a tear off her cheek. “I’m… I’m just wasting everyone’s time. Mine, yours.”

Soon, it's more than she can wipe. Tears slip down and soak into your shirt.

“You’ve been so sweet to me, and I’ve done nothing but waste your time.” Her hands tremble as she grips your shirt tightly.

“They’re wrong.”

“Who?”

“Your parents. They’re wrong, Minjeong. You’re not wasting anyone’s time. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” The weight in your voice surprises you a little, too.

“I know you want to. You help me so much. But I still don’t get anything done.”

“That’s not true. You started studying. I’ve seen it, the past few months—you’ve changed.”

“And I flunked two courses anyway.” She presses herself harder into your chest, voice muffled. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.”

“I can’t tell you how to live your life. But what I can is… things don’t always change overnight.” You slip fingers into her hair, stroking gently. “If you want something, you've gotta keep showing up—even on days you wanna fling the book out the window—and hope they will one day.”

“Do you think they will?” The eyes you’ve known for years look up at you—there’s something different in them tonight.

“I do.”

Hope, maybe.

“I’ll keep trying then. If not for me…” she trails off, eyes disappearing into the ceiling.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You don’t press. But it lingers between you, warm and real.

She asks: “Wanna head to the library later?”

“Ehh, might skip today. Kinda sleepy,” you mumble, faking a yawn.

“Shut up. You’re coming with me.”

—

You freeze when her name is called. Two calls, then they move on, that’s what the admin said.

One’s already passed. Time slows to a crawl. Your knee won’t stop bouncing. The seat edge might as well crumble under your grip.

The quiet swells, heavy and taut, like a held breath about to snap. Your chest tightens at everything she’s—you’ve—given up for this moment. And she might miss it.

Then the door by the students’ section swings open, and in she walks.

There’s hardly an outfit she can’t pull off. Honestly, you’re jealous of her versatility—her being your girlfriend only makes it slightly less unfair. Sundresses, crop tops, jeans, skirts, sweaters, leather jackets: you name it, she wears it better than anyone in the room.

But the Minjeong you see now—hair disheveled beneath her square cap, breath ragged, stole hanging lopsided over a gown that doesn’t quite fit, shoelaces tied in a rush—the one who dragged herself out of the dirt to get here.

This one might be the prettiest of them all.

Her name is called—again. She finds you in the crowd almost instantly, eyes lighting up the moment they meet yours. Her hand lifts in a faint wave as she heads up the stairs to the stage.

She doesn’t always make it easy. But she always makes it.

—

“What was so important that you almost missed your fucking graduation?” You stare daggers at her.

She shrinks a little in her gown, clutching her degree in one hand like a hall pass.

“Uh—my friend’s puppy ate a bag of chocolate almonds, then puked on my laptop. And that turned into, like, a whole thing. Don’t ask.”

“That counts as a medical emergency, right?”

“I suppose.”

You shrug. “Then I didn’t totally lie to the admin.”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I’m sorry.” She exhales softly, lips pouting. “I'll try to fuck up less. Promise.”

“We’ll see about that. Dinner’s on you tonight—Kim Minjeong, certified engineer.”

A disbelieving scoff, a shake of her head. “Some engineer. But yeah, I'll get dinner.” Minjeong takes off her cap and gently sets it on you, still warm.

You blink.

Her hand lingers at the edges. She bites her lip, tilting the cap this way and that—adjusting, pondering. After a moment, she finds an angle she likes and steps back with a quiet, satisfied smile.

—

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