"It's time."

I sit in a circle consisting of Minho, Braedyn, Thomas, and I. The others are all still swimming, but Thomas suddenly decided it was time for Minho to do his dare.

"I need paper and a pen," Minho states dryly. "Then I'll do your stupid dare."

"Then go get them," Thomas responds, crossing his arms at the Asian boy.

"You do it," Minho orders, mimicking his actions as he crosses his own. "If you want me to do the dare, then get me the paper and a working pen."

Thomas listens, and with a groan he comes back with a pen and paper for the other boy.

Grinning, Minho takes the paper from him. "Thanks, buddy."

"Don't call me that," Thomas spits. "You should thank me normally."

"Oh, sorry, Teresa."

"Stop," he hisses. "Just because you think you're better than everyone else doesn't mean you need to be a bitch about it."

"First of all, I am better at everyone else," Minho says with so much confidence that it makes me snicker. "Second of all, I'm not being a..." He pauses, "...bad person about it, thank you very much. And mind your language, Thomas Johannson."

"Is that your last name?" I pipe up, looking at Thomas. "Johannson?"

"Uh, yeah." He looks down, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"By any chance are you related to Scarlett—"

"No," he interrupts me. "I'm not related to Scarlett Johansson. Our last names are spelt differently."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Minho groans from the change of subject, and I'm starting to think he likes arguing with Thomas.

"What're you upset about?" Thomas questions, giving the boy a glare that one would think could kill. "Do you want all the attention instead of me? Are you jealous?"

"No," Minho replies quickly. Too quick. He's jealous of me. Does he like Thomas or something?

I shuffle over to him. "Why are you jealous?" I ask him quietly, ensuring Thomas doesn't overhear; he's too busy chatting with Braedyn about who–knows–what.

"I'm not," he stammers, looking around as if he could find a way out of our conversation. "What makes you think I'm jealous? Jealousy is a joke."

"I'm not stupid," I state. "I know what jealousy is, and I'm not judging you. I get jealous too, it's normal."

He stays silent, confirming my theory that I'm correct.

"But why?" I repeat.

"I don't know," he murmurs before changing the subject immediately. "Now let's get this dare over and done with."

Taking the paper out, he spins the pen in his hands and begins to write words down.

The first one reads,

PROTECT THE KIDS.

The second one says,

BEWARE OF WHAT WILL HAPPEN.

"How many will you write?" I ask.

"Well, Thomas said one every hour," Minho begins. "Not during the night, though. I might keep it going for a week. So—"

"Eighty–four," I answer quickly. "You'll need to write eighty–four notes."

"What?" He stares at me blankly. "How?"

"Twelve notes each day," I explain. "Seven days in a week. Twelve times seven equals eighty–four."

"And you did that all in your head?"

"Uh, yes?"

"Damn. You may not be fast, but you sure are smart."

"How do you know I'm not fast?" I question.

"Just a guess," Minho says. "I'm the fastest, so nobody can beat me."

"Mr huge ego," Thomas says, attempting to cover the words with a cough.

"Shut it."

Minho continues to write threatening notes, the ink flowing smoothing from the pen, forming neat handwriting on the paper.

RESPOND TO THIS OR ELSE.

YOU DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME.

I'M WARNING YOU.

YOU'LL REGRET IT IF YOU IGNORE WHAT I'M SAYING.

YOU NEED TO LISTEN.

I'M NOT JOKING AROUND.

I WILL FIND YOU.

KEEP THE KIDS SAFE.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

GOOD LUCK.

MAYBE YOU'LL UNDERSTAND SOON, MR ELIJAH VINCE.

AM I SCARING YOU? YES? GOOD.

YOU SHOULD BE SCARED.

BE GRATEFUL I'M SENDING YOU THESE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

He groans, dropping the pen. "My hand hurts so badly. Whitley, how many have I written so far?"

Quickly counting the notes, I answer his question. "Sixteen. I think."

"I'm going to take a break," Minho tells us, standing up. "I'll give the first note to him later. Who wants to come with me?"

"No one," mutters Thomas.

Ignoring him, I ask, "Where are you going?"

"My treehouse," Minho answers, grinning. "I can show you it. That's if you want to see it, of course. I won't force you."

"I'll come," I say, giving him a sincere smile. "If you want me to."

"I just offered for you to come, of course I do." He chuckles, taking my wrist and leading me away.

**

Minho's treehouse is amazing. He told me he built it when he was just eleven years old, which is insane to me. It just proves that I was right when I said he was strong.

"This is so cool, Minho," I say, looking around in amazement.

"Thanks, Ley." He smiles, and I return it, although the sudden nickname does catch me off guard.

"How often do you come here?" I ask, trying my best to start a conversation. I relax my tense body as I lean into one of the cushioned chairs.

"Everytime I come here I spend a couple of hours looking at the view," he responds. "Normally I come alone, but this time I decided that you can come too. You're special."

You're special. You're special. You're special. You're special. You're—

Stop. He just called me special, it's nothing... special.

(A/N: she's already whipped. But like, it's Minho. I would be too)

"Thank you." I look down, hiding the colour my cheeks gained.

I push his words out of my mind and focus on the view instead. You can see the beach clearly and the campsite is also in view. The main hall is hidden behind some trees, but aside from that, you can see almost everything. I watch our friends splash one another in the water, and I can picture their laughing faces.

I let out a sigh.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" Minho looks over at me, meeting my eyes.

I smile. "It really is."