#aleese1111

“your handwriting looks like a drunk spider fell in love with a pen,” she said, peering over si-eun’s shoulder.

si-eun didn’t glance up. “you’ve said that before.”

“yeah, and it hasn’t improved.”

“you’re here for math help, not calligraphy critique.”

“i’m here for the free heating,” she declared, collapsing onto his bed like it owed her rent. “your floor heating is elite. i feel like a warm croissant.”

si-eun exhaled through his nose. “you’re supposed to finish the worksheet i gave you.”

“you’re supposed to stop being a fun vacuum,” she shot back, flipping onto her stomach and burying her face in his pillow. “why do you smell like laundry detergent and sad?”

he ignored that. “that’s page two. the functions review.”

she groaned into the pillow, her voice muffled. “why are you like this?”

“efficient?”

“emotionally unbothered.”

“that’s not a flaw.”

“it is when your only reaction to my suffering is to hand me a pencil.”

she sat up and tossed said pencil at him. he caught it midair without even turning his head.

“show-off,” she muttered.

“you threw it with the force of a butterfly.”

“rude. accurate, but rude.”

they sat in silence for a moment—her pretending to work, him actually working—until she groaned again and fell dramatically across the table, narrowly missing his open notebook.

“i give up. i’m becoming a flower shop cashier. i’ll name the succulents and everything.”

“you hate plants.”

“they hate me first. it’s mutual.”

“finish number five.”

“no.”

sieun said her name.

“make me.”

he leaned back in his chair, expression flat. “do your homework.”

she leaned forward, matching his energy. “make me.”

their faces were inches apart now, eyes locked in a silent, petty standoff.

“childish,” he murmured.

“lifeless.”

“stubborn.”

“robotic.”

“you still haven’t moved.”

“you blinked first.”

“that’s not how this works.”

“says who?”

“says logic.”

she rolled her eyes and dramatically scribbled on the worksheet. “there. number five. happy?”

he checked it. “that’s number six.”

“i hate you.”

“good. now do five.”

she cursed under her breath, then muttered, “you better carry my backpack at my funeral.”

“you won’t need a backpack if you fail this class.”

“then you better carry my coffin. same energy.”

si-eun glanced at her, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

she caught it and pointed. “there. you smiled. admit you like me.”

“i smiled because you said something dumb.”

“same thing.”

they didn’t look at each other after that. not directly, anyway. but she was quietly doing question five, and si-eun casually slid a bag of her favorite snacks across the table like it didn’t mean anything.

like always.

she got up without warning and dropped beside his chair, her chin resting on his arm, body invading his space like it was natural law.

“you need a break,” she muttered.

“you’re distracting.”

“good.”

he didn’t pull away. just let her stay there, still scribbling notes while her cheek pressed against the sleeve of his hoodie.

“you’re going to smudge the ink,” he murmured.

she shrugged. “you’ll rewrite it for me anyway.”

“that’s not how this works.”

she smirked. “isn’t it?”

they stayed like that, the sound of pen on paper and her breathing settling into rhythm.

she, of course, fell asleep fifteen minutes later. head still leaning against his arm, mouth slightly open, clumsy as ever.

si-eun didn’t move.

he just kept writing with one hand, while the other lightly tugged the blanket from the bed to drape over her shoulders.

outside, the sky finally decided to rain.

inside, there was peace—chaotic, uneven, stubborn peace. the kind only the two of them could create. the kind that made sense even when nothing else did.

there was something deeply comforting about the quiet between them. it wasn’t empty, nor was it awkward. it was the type of silence that wrapped itself around them like a soft blanket—the kind of hush that existed only between people who didn’t need to fill the air to feel seen.

she sat beside him, her legs tucked under her on the floor of his room, surrounded by books, scattered notes, and the quiet tapping of his mechanical pencil. the overhead light was dimmed, casting a gentle glow that didn’t interfere with concentration but still allowed them to see one another when they glanced up. it was late—later than most would stay up willingly—but she was used to that. used to this.

his pen clicked once, then twice. she reached over before he could do it again, switching it out for a refilled one. he blinked and looked at her, only briefly, but she saw the thanks in his eyes. he never said much, not in the beginning. words weren’t his strength, and she’d learned early that the language he spoke best was one of restraint and observation. so she’d adapted. she had learned him.

every pen refill, every extra highlighter, every back-up graph sheet tucked into his folder—those were her ways of loving him. staying up when her eyes begged for sleep, just to make sure he wasn’t alone in his intensity, was her routine. not because she had to. because she wanted to. because somewhere in the middle of library tables and coffee-fueled all-nighters, she had fallen for him. not the way people usually did. she didn’t fall for his silence, or despite it. she fell into it. and learned how to love inside it.

she didn’t expect things in return. she knew he wasn’t like her. he wasn’t wired to recognize the little things, let alone mirror them. that was okay. all she ever asked for was a smile. just a small one. and even that, she never pressed for. sometimes it happened, and when it did—it felt like the sun.

tonight, though, felt different.

he was writing, yes, focused like always. but there was something off about the way he glanced at her. more frequent. as if he were trying to say something without saying it. she didn’t comment. she only shifted, brushing a stray sticky note from his leg.

"you missed dinner," she said quietly.

he paused, then shrugged.

"you didn’t eat either," he replied.

she smiled softly. “didn’t want to leave you alone.”

he hummed, barely audible. then went back to writing.

minutes passed. maybe more. time moved strangely in their little cocoon. eventually, he closed the textbook, sliding it aside. she blinked at him, surprised.

“you done for the night?” she asked.

he didn’t answer. not directly.

instead, he stood up and disappeared briefly into the hallway. she heard faint sounds from the kitchen. her eyebrows furrowed.

when he returned, he held a small tray. a bowl of rice porridge—simple, warm, and clearly homemade. next to it, a mug of ginger tea. she stared at it, stunned.

"i didn’t know how to make much," he said, eyes down. “but i remembered you said your stomach hurts when you skip meals.”

her heart stilled.

he didn’t sit back down immediately. just stood there awkwardly, almost uncomfortable with himself. his ears were flushed, just barely.

she took the tray slowly, reverently. cradled it in her lap.

“you made this?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded. “i watched a video. checked the ingredients. made sure it wasn’t too salty.”

she blinked quickly, trying not to let tears pool in her eyes.

“i didn’t think you noticed,” she said. “about the stomachaches.”

“i notice more than i say.”

that was it. just that. but to her, it was everything.

she took a spoonful, the warmth of it somehow extending beyond the bowl and into her chest. it wasn’t perfect—but it didn’t need to be. the care in it was unmistakable.

“i memorize things too,” he said, quietly, almost defensively. “not like you. not as often. but i do.”

her throat tightened.

“i know you set out my pens by color,” he continued, eyes not meeting hers. “and that you refill them even when i don’t notice. i know you only drink that strawberry milk after 2 a.m. i know you leave your charger half-unplugged because you don’t like sparks.”

she covered her mouth with one hand, heart in her throat.

“i just don’t always know what to do with the things i notice,” he said finally. “but i’m trying.”

she put the tray aside and crawled across the space between them. he didn’t look up until her hands were cupping his face, gently.

his eyes, always so guarded, softened instantly.

“you don’t have to do anything with them,” she whispered. “just remembering is already more than enough.”

he leaned slightly into her touch. she felt him sigh—really sigh—for the first time in weeks.

“i wanted to give back,” he murmured.

“you did,” she replied, voice thick. “you are.”

she kissed his forehead, soft and slow.

that night, she stayed a little closer than usual. her head on his shoulder, his hand awkwardly but intentionally resting against hers. they didn’t speak again. they didn’t need to.

the familiar scent of frying oil and garlic wafted through the air as she wiped down a table by the window, cloth in one hand, mind far from the rhythms of the restaurant. the neon sign of her family’s fried chicken place buzzed softly behind her, but the usual comfort it brought her felt distant today. she hadn't been able to stop thinking about it—the fight. the one she wasn't supposed to know about, but of course she did. she always did when it came to them.

her hand slowed over the tabletop, worry nesting in her chest. the late afternoon sun spilled golden light through the glass, casting long shadows and warming the wooden floors, but it did little to settle the twist in her stomach. she had checked her phone twice in the last hour, hoping for a message, even just an emoji. nothing.

just as she turned to the next table, she caught a glimpse of movement outside. her breath caught.

the four of them.

yeon sieun, stoic as ever; baku, somehow still smiling even with dried blood on his brow; jung tae, bruised but beaming; and go hyuntak, his arm slung carelessly over sieun’s shoulder, eyes bright with the adrenaline of victory.

she dropped the rag.

"are you serious?!" she half-shouted, half-squeaked, rushing to the front entrance, throwing open the door so fast the bell above it clanged in protest. she stormed outside, arms flying in disbelief.

"what the hell happened to you guys?! look at your faces! jung tae, are you even walking properly?! baku, your lip—! gotak! you're bleeding through your shirt! and sieun—" she stopped at him, heart clenching at the sight of crimson staining his temple. "you too?"

they all looked at her like she was a sight from a better world. baku chuckled, reaching forward to ruffle her hair with a bloodied hand. "missed you too."

she slapped his hand away with a huff, eyes wide with exasperation but soft with relief. "you're all idiots. absolute, complete idiots. come inside before you all faint on the street."

they followed without protest, brushing past the bell once more as she ushered them to the back of the restaurant where it was quieter. her parents peeked in from the kitchen, and she waved quickly. "can you make extra portions? they need food. a lot of it."

"rough day again?" her father asked, already pulling out the pans.

"something like that," she muttered.

she dragged out the first aid kit and moved toward the table where the boys sat—some slouched, some upright, all bruised. gotak was the first she started with, dabbing a cloth gently over his cheek.

"you didn’t even try to block, did you?"

he grinned, his hand naturally resting on her thigh like it always did, no thought to the gesture, and she didn’t mind. "didn’t need to. we won."

"that’s not the point," she said, flicking his forehead.

"ow," he chuckled, his eyes catching hers for just a second longer than usual. her hand lingered a beat longer too, thumb brushing just under his jaw. he didn’t flinch.

she cleared her throat and moved to sieun next. he sat perfectly still, letting her tend to him like he always did. their eyes met—no words exchanged—but he gave the smallest nod. she returned it with a faint smile. he never needed to speak much. he always understood. but something in the way his gaze lingered today made her chest tighten. like he was reading more than he let on.

jung tae winced as she pressed antiseptic onto a scrape on his neck.

"don’t be a baby."

"you’re treating me like one."

"because you are one," she said, patting his cheek. "you’re lucky i don’t swaddle you in bubble wrap."

he flushed, muttering something about being strong as she moved on to baku, who held out his arm with a dramatic sigh.

"you should open a clinic," he teased. "but only for good-looking guys."

she smirked. "so i guess i’ll be closing after today, then."

"ouch. that’s cold."

they bantered easily as she wrapped gauze around his forearm. it was always like this with baku—like talking to a much older friend who still knew how to laugh like a kid. he leaned a bit closer as she tied the final knot in the bandage.

"you’re really good at this, you know?" he said more seriously, his voice low. "you keep everyone stitched up, not just with tape and gauze."

she blinked, taken aback by the sincerity. "you’re just saying that because i’m your free nurse."

"nah. saying it ‘cause it’s true."

food arrived not long after, filling the air with sizzling spices and warmth. plates clinked. drinks poured. for a moment, the chaos of the outside world paused.

gotak’s hand stayed on her thigh as he ate, casual and unthinking, but every so often his pinky tapped against her knee like he wasn’t quite as unaffected as he looked. she leaned slightly into him without thinking. it was just how they were—but tonight, the warmth of him beside her seemed to sink deeper into her skin.

sieun sat across from her, meeting her gaze occasionally with the tiniest of smiles. that was enough. except this time, he didn’t look away as quickly. his eyes lingered. she looked down at her plate, suddenly aware of how warm her ears felt.

jung tae animatedly talked about how he “almost” knocked a guy’s tooth out, while she poked fun at his exaggerated expressions.

"you should’ve seen me! the guy was huge. i mean, hulk huge."

"and you? what, ant-man?" she laughed, nudging his side.

"i’m tall!" he protested.

"you’re adorable."

he groaned, dropping his chopsticks in defeat. "why does everyone call me that?"

"because it’s true," gotak chimed in with a grin, ruffling jung tae’s already messy hair.

and baku, between mouthfuls, reached over to ruffle her hair again.

"you’re good at worrying," he said.

she rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. "and you’re good at making me do it."

as the night wore on and the plates grew emptier, the energy shifted into something slower, softer. gotak leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers, and she didn’t move away. when she yawned, he tilted his head toward her.

"tired?"

"a little. long day."

"want me to carry you upstairs?" he teased.

she rolled her eyes but laughed. "you’d trip over the first step."

"still worth the offer."

across the table, sieun watched quietly, fingers tapping against his drink. their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, everything felt still.

it was nothing. probably nothing.

but maybe it wasn’t.

the table bubbled with quiet laughter again. they were beaten, bruised, borderline limping—but they were together.

the air inside baek jin’s office always smelled like old paper, cigarette smoke, and something faintly metallic—like blood that never quite left the floor. the room was small but efficient. a modest desk sat tucked against the far wall, cluttered with files and an aging laptop baek jin used for both homework and union logistics. behind him, shelves groaned under the weight of ledgers, envelopes, and binders—some labeled, some not. a coat rack stood near the door, his school uniform jacket hanging neatly as always, untouched and ghost-like.

on the couch, which was barely wide enough for two, she sat cross-legged, a thick folder open on her lap. her fingers were stained with ink and nicotine, flipping pages with practiced speed. her brows were drawn tight in concentration, but her mouth was already forming insults.

“you’re breathing too loud. move.”

beside her, seong je let out a long, lazy exhale, smoke trailing from his lips. “it’s my lungs. want me to stop breathing next?” his thumb scrolled absently on his phone.

“you say that like it’s a bad idea.”

“you like having me around. admit it.”

she snorted. “i’d rather put out this cigarette in my eye.”

baek jin didn’t look up from his desk. this was routine. predictable. he only paused for a second when seong je flicked a crumpled receipt at her face, smirking when it bounced off her forehead.

“touch me again, i will rip your ears off and mail them to your mother,” she said, without even flinching.

“joke’s on you, she’s already deaf.”

that earned him a hard jab to the ribs with the sharp edge of a folder. he groaned theatrically, tipping his head back against the couch and blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

“i swear to god, you're like a feral cat with a calculator,” he muttered.

“and you’re a hemorrhoid with a motorcycle license.”

baek jin turned a page. the yelling had escalated, but it was background noise. normal. expected.

the argument died the same way it always did—abruptly and without resolution.

she slammed the folder shut and stood. the air shifted. joon and gyung, who had been waiting outside the office door like loyal shadows, straightened as she stepped out.

“collection day,” she said simply, already moving.

seong je rolled his shoulders and stood with her, but she didn’t wait. joon and gyung fell in line behind her like trained dogs, their footsteps echoing as the group left the safe walls of the bowling alley and stepped into the dusk.

@ . !

they found them behind a school, deep in the alley that smelled like piss and motor oil. it was a place for things that didn’t want to be seen—perfect for business.

a few boys loitered under the flickering light. low-ranking union lackeys, careless with the rules. she stopped a few feet away, her presence slicing through the tension like a box cutter.

“you’ve got my money?” she asked, voice cool, indifferent.

one of the boys stepped forward. too confident. too dumb. “you don’t get to bark orders at us, bitch.”

seong je was sitting nearby, on a low concrete barrier, smoking. he didn’t move. not yet. he was watching, the way a wolf watches another predator test its luck.

she didn’t blink. “you’re two days late.”

the guy stepped closer, nudging her shoulder. once. twice.

“maybe you wait a little longer,” he said with a smirk. “maybe say please.”

behind her, joon and gyung tensed. she didn’t say anything, just gave a lazy glance to her left.

gyung understood the signal.

the jab to the gut was fast and brutal—air left the guy’s lungs like a popped balloon. he stumbled back, wheezing, while the others flinched. two of them ran.

“go,” she said calmly.

joon darted after them.

only two remained: the one bent over in pain, and another who hadn’t moved yet, watching with wide eyes, deciding if he wanted to be stupid or not.

she crouched beside the first guy, lit another cigarette with a flick of her lighter, and exhaled slowly.

“you work for me,” she said. “you pay, or you bleed. got it?”

the second guy tensed—fight won the war in his brain.

he lunged.

he never reached her.

seong je was a blur of violence—one second on the edge of the scene, the next driving a fist into the boy’s face hard enough to drop him instantly. no words. no warning. just pure, sharp brutality.

he didn’t stop.

fists rained down, calculated and furious. blood splattered against the wall. the sound of bone meeting flesh echoed through the alley.

she stood slowly, arms crossed, cigarette glowing.

“enough,” she said.

seong je didn’t look at her right away. his fists paused mid-motion. then he stood, blood staining his knuckles, breathing hard.

she met his eyes for a moment. something silent passed between them. then she turned and walked away.

“get the cash,” she called over her shoulder.

gyung moved without question.

seong je wiped his hand on his shirt and lit a new cigarette. he glanced once at the boy groaning on the ground and then followed her into the dark.

business, as always, was done.

@ . !

the streets were quieter now. the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that swallowed the cracks in the pavement. she walked ahead, cigarette still burning between her fingers, the orange tip flaring with every drag. her steps were calm, composed, like she hadn’t just threatened teenagers and watched one get half-pulped into a brick wall.

behind her, seong je followed. blood still clung to the ridges of his knuckles, crusting dry in the creases, but he didn’t care. he never did. he flicked his own cigarette aside and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing softly in rhythm. the kind of quiet that buzzed—static thick with unspoken things.

“you know,” seong je finally said, “you could’ve told gyung to handle it before that dumbass even touched you.”

she didn’t look at him. “he barely touched me.”

“he pushed you.”

“and i didn’t fall. so?”

he scoffed, catching up until they walked shoulder to shoulder. “you’re insane.”

“says the guy who beat someone half to death over a shoulder nudge.”

he grinned. “you like it when i get violent.”

she rolled her eyes. “i like it when you shut the fuck up.”

“but you let me handle it.”

“i let you burn calories.”

seong je laughed under his breath, a short, dry sound. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

“for what?”

“for being your unhinged guard dog.”

“you’re not my anything.”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he glanced sideways at her—at the bruise just barely starting to form on her collarbone where the guy had pushed her, at the cigarette held steady between her fingers, at the calm, calculated cold in her eyes.

he liked her too much. it was a problem he hadn’t figured out how to fix.

“...you patched me up last week,” he muttered. “don’t pretend like you don’t care.”

“i patched you up so you wouldn’t bleed on baek jin’s couch.”

“sure,” he said. “totally believable.”

she slowed a bit, enough that he noticed but didn’t comment. she glanced over, squinting at him through the dimming light.

“you’re bleeding,” she said flatly.

“you always say that like it’s a surprise.”

she stopped walking. so did he.

“you’re an idiot,” she said, stepping in close. her hand reached for his face, thumb brushing a cut on his cheekbone. it was rough, not tender—like everything she did. “you didn’t have to go that far.”

“he was gonna hit you.”

“i had it handled.”

“yeah,” he muttered, not smiling anymore. “but i don’t like watching people touch you.”

her expression didn’t change. not much. maybe a flicker in her eyes. maybe.

she shoved his face gently to the side with the palm of her hand. “possessive freak.”

he grinned again. “you love it.”

“i tolerate it.”

“that’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

she started walking again. “say one more word and i’ll smoke my cigarette out on your forehead.”

he laughed, trailing behind her.

and behind the sarcasm and bruised knuckles, there was something solid between them—twisted, loud, dysfunctional.

@ . !

by the time they reached the back entrance of the bowling alley, the sky had faded to charcoal grey. the neon sign buzzed above them, flickering like it was trying to decide whether to die or hang on another day. she pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped inside, the familiar scent of oil, dust, and stale air greeting her like a second home.

seong je followed her, hands still in his pockets, quieter now. at the door to baek jin’s office, he hesitated. she paused, looking back at him.

“i’m heading to the internet café,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes lingered on her a little longer than necessary. “need to blow off some steam.”

she shrugged, already reaching for the doorknob. “go waste your brain cells.”

he smirked. “you love me dumb.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

she pushed the door open and stepped inside. he didn’t follow.

“patch your hand,” she added over her shoulder. “or don’t. maybe it’ll rot off.”

“aw, worried about me,” he teased.

she gave him the finger without turning around.

he chuckled and walked off, footsteps fading down the hall.

inside, baek jin didn’t look up as she entered. he was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, pencil in hand, methodically underlining something in one of the ledgers. the room felt quieter without seong je in it—thicker, somehow.

she dropped her bag beside the couch and sank into it with a tired exhale. the tension hadn’t left her body yet, but it always faded in here. in this space where time moved slower, where baek jin never asked more than she wanted to give.

“you’re back early,” he said after a moment, eyes still on the paper.

“boys ran faster than usual.”

he nodded once. “anyone give you trouble?”

she pulled another cigarette from her pocket. “one tried. he didn’t try again.”

this time, baek jin did look up. his eyes flicked to her shoulder, narrowing slightly. “you’re bruised.”

“occupational hazard,” she muttered, lighting up.

he stared at her a second longer, then stood. she watched him cross the room in that quiet, deliberate way he moved—like he didn’t waste energy on anything that didn’t matter. he disappeared behind her for a moment. when he came back, he tossed his jacket over her.

she stiffened slightly, cigarette hovering near her lips.

“still cold,” he said simply, sitting back down.

“i’m not cold.”

“you always say that.”

she didn’t take it off.

they sat like that for a while. just the two of them. him scribbling quietly. her smoking in silence, baek jin’s jacket draped over her shoulders like it belonged there.

no yelling. no banter.

just stillness.

the only sound for a long while was the scratch of baek jin’s pencil against paper and the occasional soft crackle of her cigarette.

“you let seong je come with you again,” baek jin said eventually, not looking up.

she snorted. “he follows me around like a leech. what am i supposed to do? spray him with bug repellent?”

“he’s loud,” baek jin replied calmly.

“so are you, when you feel like it.”

“not with fists.”

she gave a half-smirk, flicking ash into the tray on the coffee table. “you jealous?”

“no,” he said plainly. “he’s reckless. you’re not.”

“he only steps in when i let him.” she tilted her head against the back of the couch, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “you know that.”

baek jin hummed, noncommittal, and went back to his work.

for a while, there was nothing but silence again. not awkward. not empty. just their kind of quiet.

“you still live off convenience store food?” she asked after a minute, squinting at him.

“i eat what’s easy.”

“that’s not eating. that’s survival.”

“i survive just fine.”

“could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, stretching out along the couch. “you’re gonna die from sodium poisoning before you even graduate.”

“and you’ll die from chain-smoking before i do.”

“touché,” she murmured, a tired smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

her voice grew softer, like sleep was already tugging at her edges. “...how do you do it?”

baek jin paused, pencil hovering over the paper. “do what?”

“stay calm all the time. even when shit hits the fan. even when everyone’s losing their heads.” her voice had dropped low. “how do you not break?”

he was quiet for a beat.

then, “because if i break, everything else does.”

she didn’t answer. her breathing was slowing now, cigarette burned out in the ashtray. she was curled on her side, one arm under her head, the other tugging baek jin’s jacket closer around her like she hadn’t meant to.

he glanced up, setting his pencil down soundlessly.

she was already asleep.

he stood, walked over with soft steps, and crouched beside the couch. carefully, he pulled the jacket tighter over her frame and adjusted the pillow under her head. for a second, his hand hovered near her temple, like he wanted to brush the hair away from her face—but didn’t.

baek jin’s face didn’t show much. it never did.

but something flickered in his eyes. something quiet. protective.

then he stood, returned to his desk, and went back to work.

behind him, she slept soundly under his jacket, breathing even and steady.

and outside, the world kept turning. dangerous. unforgiving.

but in here, for a little while longer, it was still.

seong-je leaned against the chipped iron fence outside her school gate, one boot pressed to the metal, cigarette smoldering between two fingers. his hoodie was pulled up despite the late afternoon heat, casting a shadow over his sharp gaze, which never quite left the screen of his phone. smoke curled lazily around him, drifting into the golden haze of the setting sun.

every so often, a student passing by would glance at him too long. the guys looked cautious. the girls looked curious. no one was dumb enough to approach.

he didn’t notice. or at least, he made damn sure it looked like he didn’t.

his phone buzzed.

baek jin: “she better not be bleeding again. straight to the bowling alley. no stops. no detours. keep her out of trouble for once.”

seong-je scoffed under his breath, thumb hovering over a reply he didn’t bother sending. babysitting. again. he couldn’t decide whether baek jin genuinely trusted him with this task or just liked the idea of him suffering.

then he heard it — the metal creak of the school gate. the click of shoes on pavement. a familiar rhythm, like chaos with too much confidence.

“miss me, pretty boy?”

he glanced up, already exhaling a long plume of smoke — and there she was.

lip split clean down the center, blood dried in the corner. her tie was nowhere to be seen, blazer thrown over her shoulder like it was a fashion statement. there was a fresh bruise forming on her cheek, but the smirk on her face made it look intentional.

trouble. wrapped in plaid skirt and attitude.

she sauntered over like she was walking a runway and not the sidewalk outside a disciplinary office.

“you’re late,” he said, tone flat, eyes lingering on her mouth for a beat too long.

“you’re welcome,” she replied brightly. “figured you’d get all twitchy if you didn’t have time to miss me.”

he didn’t dignify that with an answer. just looked her over with that same clinical coldness he used on enemies.

“what happened?”

she shrugged. “girl got bold. thought she could call me a plastic bitch and live.”

he arched a brow. “and?”

“she’s not living.”

he clicked his tongue and dropped the cigarette, grinding it beneath his heel. “you’re a magnet for lawsuits.”

“i’m a magnet for jealousy,” she corrected, brushing past him so her fingers casually grazed his.

he tensed — not visibly, not obviously — but she felt it. she always did.

“you’ve got blood on your sleeve,” he muttered.

“not mine,” she said cheerfully.

he gave her a look. one of those unreadable, annoyed-but-not-really ones.

“baek jin’s gonna lose it.”

she waved it off. “he always does. it’s his cardio.”

they started walking side by side. or rather, she walked in little bouncing steps that made her ponytail sway, while he matched her pace like he wasn’t watching her every move out the corner of his eye.

“where are we going?” she asked, tugging her blazer around her shoulders.

“bowling alley. your brother’s already there.”

she groaned loudly. “great. a post-fight lecture with pins crashing in the background. peak family bonding.”

he stayed silent.

a group of boys passed them on the sidewalk, loud and laughing until one of them caught sight of her. his eyes lingered. too long.

before she could say something smart, seong-je had already turned his head — just slightly — and stared the guy down like he was planning his funeral.

“something funny?” he asked, voice low and cold.

the boy instantly looked away, mumbling something as he walked faster.

she grinned. “aw. were you jealous?”

he didn’t answer.

“that was hot,” she added, bumping her shoulder into his. “almost made me swoon.”

“try not to swoon into traffic,” he muttered, reaching out — quick and automatic — to guide her by the arm when they stepped off the curb.

she blinked at the contact, warmth shooting through her from the way his hand lingered just a second too long before letting go.

“your love language is showing,” she whispered.

“shut up.”

“no, really,” she teased. “it’s cute. you're like... my grumpy little chauffeur.”

“i’ll throw you into the nearest trash can.”

“you’d miss me.”

he glanced at her then — fast, sharp — like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust it out loud. so instead, he reached over and pulled her blazer back up over her shoulder again. neat. protective.

she let him.

the bowling alley sign flickered in the distance, humming faintly in neon pinks and greens.

she sighed. “so, what do you think the over-under is on how many insults my brother’s gonna throw at me the second we walk in?”

“four, minimum,” seong-je replied.

“i’m betting five. he’s probably already rehearsing them.”

“you gonna behave this time?”

“no.”

he didn’t even blink. “didn’t think so.”

they stopped at the entrance. she turned to him, smirking.

“you’re not gonna tell him about the fight, are you?”

he gave her a long look. “what do i get if i don’t?”

“mm…” she leaned in close, real close, until he could smell the faint perfume on her collar. “a kiss on the cheek?”

he stared at her, jaw clenched.

then: “i’d rather get punched.”

she laughed, soft and delighted. “liar.”

he didn’t deny it.

the hallway behind the bowling lanes was dim and quiet, lit only by the flickering light above baek jin’s office door. the crash of pins and the muffled thump of music faded as they stepped inside.

it was a small, lived-in space. desk cluttered with open books and papers. filing drawers half-shut. a couch squished against one wall, definitely only meant for two if they didn’t mind sitting too close. a low coffee table was stacked with energy drink cans and a single, dying plant.

baek jin sat behind the desk, hunched over his notes, pencil tapping restlessly against the page. he didn’t look up.

“took you long enough,” he muttered.

“she had to beat someone up first,” seong-je said coolly, shutting the door behind them.

the girl breezed in like she owned the place, flopping dramatically onto the small couch. her skirt rode up just enough to get a side-eye from seong-je, who promptly looked away — but not before she caught it and smirked.

“don’t worry, oppa,” she said sweetly to baek jin, “the other girl looks way worse.”

“you’re a walking suspension notice,” baek jin grumbled, eyes still on his work.

she leaned back on the couch, stretching out like a cat, then looked up at seong-je with a slow smile. “sit with me. or are you scared i’ll touch you?”

seong-je gave her a blank look but didn’t argue. he crossed the room and lowered himself beside her, keeping exactly two inches of space between them. she, of course, immediately closed it.

baek jin didn’t look up, but his pencil stopped moving.

“don’t test my patience,” he warned.

“i’m not doing anything,” she said innocently, nudging seong-je’s thigh with her own.

seong-je shifted but didn’t move away. “you’re going to get me murdered,” he muttered.

“please. he likes you more than most people.” she turned to face him fully, propping her chin in her hand. “you look cute today, by the way.”

“you say that every time.”

“because it’s true every time.”

he rolled his eyes, but his ears turned slightly pink.

baek jin sighed, finally glancing up. “can you stop harassing him for five minutes?”

she gasped, offended. “i’m flirting. flirting isn’t a crime.”

“with you, it should be,” seong-je muttered.

“you like it.”

he didn’t answer.

she leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “if i kissed you right now, would you die or kiss me back?”

he met her gaze, calm, unreadable. “i’d probably throw you off the couch.”

she grinned. “so you have thought about it.”

behind the desk, baek jin muttered something about losing his mind and went back to his notes.

she shifted even closer, her leg brushing against seong-je’s. “you smell like smoke,” she said, quieter this time.

he glanced at her sideways. “so do you.”

her grin widened. “told you i’m your soulmate.”

“that’s not how that works.”

she bumped his shoulder with hers. “you didn’t tell baek jin i smoke. that’s love.”

“i didn’t tell baek jin because i don’t feel like watching you get disowned in real time.”

“aww,” she purred, drawing out the word like a melody. “you care.”

seong-je didn’t reply — but when she shifted to pull her blazer off again, he automatically reached out, tugging it back over her shoulder without thinking.

she blinked. “you’re so obvious.”

“shut up,” he said, quietly.

baek jin finally stood up from his desk, stretching. “i’m going to grab something from the counter. if either of you is sitting on top of the other when i get back—”

“we’ll be married,” she finished brightly.

seong-je gave her a look.

baek jin groaned and left the room, muttering to himself.

as soon as the door clicked shut, she leaned over to seong-je’s ear. “he hates how much i like you.”

“i hate how much you like me.”

“no you don’t.”

he didn’t argue. he didn’t move away, either.

“seriously,” she whispered, resting her chin on his shoulder for a moment. “what if i kissed you right now?”

he stared ahead at the desk. “you’d miss.”

she laughed, soft and breathy. “that’s not a no.”

“no, it’s a warning.”

she leaned closer still — then stopped, just an inch from his cheek, eyes playful but steady. “one day you’re going to kiss me first.”

he didn’t move.

didn’t speak.

but his hand drifted to her thigh — barely there, fingers resting lightly, like gravity made the choice for him.

“try not to get suspended again,” he murmured, voice low.

she smiled, victorious.

late afternoon light filtered through the half-open shutters, slicing across the dust-filled air of the garage in harsh beams. the metallic clatter of tools echoed somewhere in the back as two underlings worked on stripping a stolen ducati. a playlist of half-dead punk played from a speaker on the shelf, loud enough to fill the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the unease that always lingered in this place.

the garage was many things—a chop shop, a graveyard for stolen engines, a union hideout masquerading as a legal front—but to seong je, it was also a den. a lair. a place where he could let his guard down, just a little. that is, when certain people weren’t around.

seong je sat sprawled across the cracked leather couch, legs stretched, arm draped lazily over the backrest. his cigarette burned low, the smoke curling around his face like lazy ghosts. he had that look on—detached, disinterested, predatory boredom.

but his eyes kept flicking—very subtly—to one thing.

a cardigan.

it lay on the far end of the couch, half-hanging over the edge. cream-colored, soft, expensive. a woman’s piece. a luxury item. and in this place of blood, rust, and oil, it might as well have been a glowing red flag.

she had left it.

not on purpose. she was careful, always. meticulous. clean exits. no footprints. but today, something had slipped. and now it sat there like a trap waiting to snap shut.

the door opened.

he didn’t move, but he knew that gait. the steady, unhurried pace. calculated.

baek jin.

he entered without a word, gaze cutting across the garage with cool detachment. still in uniform, blazer loose over his shoulders, posture relaxed but never vulnerable. he nodded to one of the boys in the back, then made his way toward the office.

he watched him go, exhaling smoke through his teeth.

a few minutes passed. then baek jin returned, steps lighter, hands in his pockets as he drifted toward the couch.

“everything in order?” he asked without looking.

“mm,” baek jin said, eyes drifting again. “still missing that cb650. might’ve been stashed in the old textile lot.”

“could be,” he replied. “kids have been sloppy.”

baek jin stopped a few feet from the couch, then slowly lowered himself onto the bench opposite, just far enough to look like he wasn’t here to confront anything.

his eyes wandered.

and landed.

on the cardigan.

it wasn’t dramatic. just a subtle shift in his gaze, the way a wolf notices a broken branch in the woods.

he noticed. of course he did.

baek jin tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “someone leave something?”

he didn’t look. “guess so.”

“odd to see something like that here,” jin said. “doesn’t match the decor.”

“girls swing by sometimes,” he muttered, tapping ash onto the floor. “one of them probably forgot it.”

“mmh.” jin nodded slowly. “looks pricey.”

“yeah. didn’t check the tag.”

another pause.

baek jin leaned back just slightly. “you remember who was here last?”

his eyes finally met jin’s. slow. bored. “nah. wasn’t paying attention.”

there was a beat of silence—just long enough for tension to thread between them.

the motorcycle garage reeked of sweat, oil, and burnt rubber—the kind of place where tempers sparked easier than engines. a dented workbench sat shoved into one corner, tools scattered across it like a graveyard of failed fixes. the overhead light buzzed with a dying flicker, and the air was thick with heat and fury.

“you’re fucking unbelievable,” she hissed, voice cutting through the space like a scalpel.

seong je stood across from her, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. “don’t start with me...”

“start? i’m not starting shit. i’m finishing what your idiot screwed up.” her voice rose to a full-blown yell. “you let one of your morons walk around with ten stolen phones like we’re not running an actual operation!”

“i didn’t let him do shit!” he shouted back, stepping forward. “he went off script! i told him to stash the haul. he got jumped, not my fucking fault!”

“then whose fault is it? mine?” her eyes burned, teeth grit. “you act like this is some damn street gang, not a business.”

“it is a street gang,” he snapped, voice heavy with sarcasm. “in case you forgot, none of us have fucking degrees or a retirement plan.”

“you know what i mean, seong je. we’re organized. we have rules. and your guy just cost us everything we pulled yesterday.”

“maybe if you weren’t so busy barking orders and being a condescending bitch all the time—”

she was on him in a second, finger jabbing into his chest. “say that again. say it again.”

he caught her wrist, hard enough to make her flinch—but just for a second. “you wanna hit me now? is that what this is?” his voice dropped into something dangerous. “you think i’m scared of you?”

“no,” she spat. “i think you’re scared of being fucking useless. that’s why you’re always trying to swing your dick around. to make up for the fact you keep screwing up.”

something snapped in his eyes—sharp, violent. “keep pushing me. see what happens.”

she didn’t blink. “already did. still nothing.”

they stood there, faces inches apart, rage vibrating between them like a live wire. neither moved. neither gave in. both of them breathing hard, jaws locked.

then, without a word, she yanked her arm free and stormed out of the garage. the door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the frame.

@ . !

by the time she reached the bowling alley, her throat hurt from yelling. her boots clacked across the sticky floor as she passed the empty lanes, not sparing a glance at the clatter of pins echoing faintly in the distance.

she pushed the office door open without knocking.

baek jin didn’t look up.

“tell me again why we keep seong je around,” she said flatly, tossing herself onto the couch like a stormcloud ready to ruin the day.

baek jin wrote something on his notebook. “he does what you can’t.”

“like lose stolen merchandise?” she snapped, dragging a hand through her hair. “god, he’s insufferable.”

baek jin finally turned, leaning back slightly in his chair, eyeing her with calm indifference. “what happened now?”

“phones,” she groaned. “ten of them. gone. one of his half-brained cronies got rolled. didn’t even stash them properly.” her voice cracked under the weight of exhaustion and rage. “and he blames me for being too uptight.”

“because yelling solves everything,” baek jin muttered, returning to his notebook.

she flopped onto her side, legs draped across the arm of the couch, one arm thrown over her eyes. “he called me a bitch, jin. a condescending one. like he even knows what that word means.”

“probably heard it in a movie.”

she let out a tired laugh—just one breath of amusement. “he looked like he was gonna throw something.”

“you look like you already did.”

she pulled his jacket from the back of the couch and draped it over her legs. “i hate him.”

“you don’t.”

“i do.”

“no, you don’t.”

silence.

then, more quietly: “...he scares me sometimes.”

baek jin didn’t respond right away.

“then don’t fight fire with fire,” he said eventually. “you’ll both burn.”

she stared at the ceiling, lips pressed thin.

and maybe she was burning. maybe she'd been burning for a while.

the minutes ticked by in a slow crawl, thick with that kind of silence only known between two people used to each other’s noise. she had cooled on the outside—no more fire, no more raised voice—but inside, the coals still glowed red. she hadn’t moved from the couch. one leg was curled underneath her, the other bouncing softly as she scribbled something into her notebook.

her phone sat to her right, flipped over. a math worksheet lay to her left, partially filled, and next to it was a half-eaten bag of shrimp chips. baek jin was back at his desk, eyes flicking between his work and the occasional glance at her page whenever she cursed under her breath.

“that one’s wrong,” he murmured.

“i knew it,” she muttered, erasing with unnecessary force. “this whole formula’s stupid.”

“no,” he said, typing lazily, “your distribution is stupid. the formula’s fine.”

“thanks for the confidence boost,” she shot back, but there wasn’t much bite in her tone.

“anytime.”

@ . !

they worked like that for another hour or two—sprawled in silence, occasionally interrupted by the click of a pen, the flick of a page, or a question about variables. it felt weirdly domestic. familiar.

until the office door creaked open.

she didn’t look up. didn’t need to. she knew the weight of that silence the second it walked in.

footsteps. slow. heavy. the scrape of worn sneakers on tile.

then something hit the floor beside her with a loud thud.

a duffle bag.

she looked up.

seong je stood a few feet away, breathing hard. his white school shirt was torn near the collar, buttons misaligned like he’d thrown it back on in a rush. his tie was missing. his lip was split and barely crusted over. blood had dried in a streak down his cheek, and his knuckles were red and raw—some cracked open, others bruised deep violet.

but it was the eyes that made her stop.

not angry. not cocky. not blank, either.

tired. steady.

he didn’t say a word.

she blinked, then glanced down at the bag. the zipper was half open—just enough for her to see the corner of a phone box. then another. and another.

all ten were in there.

baek jin stood up from his desk, slowly walking over. he opened the bag fully and confirmed it, counting silently. “you got them all back?”

seong je didn’t answer. just nodded, once.

“alone?” baek jin asked, quieter this time.

another nod.

baek jin whistled low under his breath, impressed.

she was still looking at him. not speaking. not moving. her hand, still holding a pen, trembled faintly against the edge of her notebook.

he looked at her once. quick. just a flicker. but it was enough.

she turned back to her worksheet without a word.

the room held its breath.

seong je wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and walked toward the couch. he didn’t sit beside her. just near. close enough that she could smell sweat, smoke, and rust on his skin.

he let out a quiet breath and leaned back against the wall, sliding down into a sitting position, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees. the buzz of the overhead light hummed back into the space between them.

she kept writing.

but she didn’t flip the page again.

after a moment, without looking at him, she reached into her tote bag and fished around. pens, a folded test paper, a lip balm, gum—and then, her hand landed on the small emergency pouch she always carried.

she pulled it out, unzipped it with one hand, and tossed a small box of bandages and antiseptic wipes toward him. it hit his leg with a soft thump.

“try not to bleed out on baek jin’s floor,” she said flatly. “he’s too lazy to mop.”

baek jin snorted from across the room but didn’t comment.

seong je glanced at the box, then up at her. for the first time all day, the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.

she didn’t look at him.

but her foot shifted slightly in his direction, brushing the edge of his.

and for now, that was enough.

the silence that followed wasn’t tense anymore—just tired.

seong je stayed slumped against the wall for another few minutes, wrapping a few of the bandages around his knuckles with surprising precision. he didn’t speak, and neither did she. eventually, he stood again with a wince and stretched his arms out until his shoulders cracked.

“i’m heading to the pc bang,” he muttered, brushing dust off his wrinkled uniform. “if you’re planning to keep sulking, do it quietly.”

she didn’t reply.

he hesitated at the door, one hand on the knob, glancing back over his shoulder. “...i got the phones back, you know.”

“i noticed.”

“you’re welcome.”

she flipped another page in her workbook. “i already said thanks.”

he rolled his eyes and left.

the door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

@ . !

the last of the arcade lights flickered off, followed by the clunk of the main door locking shut. the bowling alley was quiet now—emptied out, wiped down, and dark except for the faint blue glow of the vending machine in the corner.

baek jin pocketed the keys with a sigh, shoulders rolling back in the stretch of relief that came after closing time. “we survived another day of screaming kids and gutter balls.”

she slipped on her hoodie, tugging it down to her wrists. “barely.”

“come on. i’m starving.” he nudged her lightly with his elbow. “you ate yet?”

she shook her head. “didn’t have time.”

“perfect. my treat.”

she gave him a sideways look. “your treat is always eight thousand won and spicy as hell.”

“and you always eat it like it’s nothing, so what does that say?”

she rolled her eyes but followed him anyway.

the streets were empty at this hour, just the hum of streetlamps buzzing above and the low whir of a passing bus in the distance. they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing in the narrow alley that led down to the backlot where the tiny tteokbokki joint sat—half hidden behind a metal shutter and marked only by a flickering neon sign that read 분식천국.

inside, it was warm and orange-lit, the kind of place where the plastic stools wobbled and the ajumma behind the counter always gave too much fish cake.

the tteokbokki shop was quieter now, the neon sign flickering softly as the last of the steam drifted from the pan. she poked at her food, her chopsticks moving aimlessly as she avoided looking directly at baek jin. she was still annoyed—still holding that edge—but not as sharp as earlier. it was always this way, after things had settled. tension dissolved, but never fully.

baek jin picked up a piece of soondae without looking at her, his movements smooth, deliberate. he took a bite, chewing slowly, while his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than usual.

“you know,” he said after a few moments, his voice softer than it had been earlier, “you could relax every once in a while.”

she made a face, her chopsticks still hovering above the plate, and shot him a look. “relax? that’s rich coming from you.”

he shrugged, glancing out the small window at the dark alley beyond. the streetlights outside hummed, casting long shadows that filled the empty space between them. then, almost absentmindedly, he reached over and pushed the plate of rice cakes closer to her.

“i’m serious,” he said, quieter this time. “you don’t have to keep everything in motion all the time.”

her fingers tightened around her chopsticks, but she didn’t respond immediately. instead, she stole a glance at him—eyes narrowing just a little, studying him as if trying to read between his words. but he was already looking away, a subtle tilt to his head, like he didn’t mind if she didn’t take the bait.

after a beat, she finally reached for another rice cake. her hand brushed against his casually, just the barest touch, but it was enough to make her pause, fingers still lingering against his. for a second, she almost didn’t pull back, but then she did, almost reflexively, as if she hadn’t meant to stay there.

his eyes flickered to her hand, but he didn’t say anything. he just kept eating, quieter now.

she took a deep breath, trying to shake off the discomfort that crawled up her throat. “i don’t need your advice, baek jin.”

“i didn’t say you did,” he replied, voice laced with something she couldn’t quite place. was it amusement? care? it was hard to tell, but he didn’t seem fazed by her harshness. his gaze was steady, like he was trying to understand her through the quiet.

another beat of silence passed. her foot nudged against his under the table—accidental, probably. but it lingered, her heel against the side of his shoe, the warmth of her body close enough that he could feel the weight of it.

for a moment, neither of them moved. the air between them was thick in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable, just... full. heavy with things unsaid.

he cleared his throat quietly, shifting his foot away just enough for the pressure to break. she didn’t pull her foot back, though, and the moment passed without comment.

she didn’t look at him as she pushed the food around again. “you think i’m some kind of... control freak?”

“i think you don’t let people in,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, just a little too honest. “it’s like you’re always holding everything back.”

she froze for a second. his words lingered in the air, like smoke, and she could feel the weight of them, like the air had thickened.

her fingers tightened around her chopsticks, and she looked up at him, but she didn’t say anything for a long time. she wanted to snap back, to tell him he was wrong, but something in his eyes stopped her. maybe it was the way he wasn’t looking at her for a response, but just... waiting.

when she spoke, it was quieter than before. “i don’t need anyone to fix me.”

he gave her a quick, almost imperceptible smile, like he understood more than she wanted him to. “i didn’t say anything about fixing you.”

there was a beat of silence between them, but this time, it wasn’t awkward. it was just... there.

she grabbed the last piece of soondae, eating it in one bite. “i’m done. you?” she asked, her voice a little more like herself again—sharp, biting.

he smiled more openly this time. “you eat like a rat.”

she snorted, setting her chopsticks down with a little too much force. “and you’re a walking mannequin.”

when they stood up to leave, it was a little too quiet, but neither of them said much. she put her jacket on, pulling it over her shoulders with more force than necessary, like it was an armour she didn’t need.

@ . !

as they walked through the dark alley, the hum of the streetlights was the only sound between them, a quiet rhythm in the otherwise empty night. she kept her gaze forward, her hands tucked deep into her pockets, shoulders tense.

but then, that one small gesture—a simple adjustment of her collar—broke through the armor she had been building around herself all evening.

her breath caught for just a second. she hadn’t expected it. not from him. she hadn’t expected him to see her. not in this way.

his fingers barely brushed her skin, and in that moment, she felt the shift. it was like the weight she’d been carrying—unseen, unheard, but always there—just became too much to hold onto.

she didn’t stop walking, but her steps slowed, just for a moment. her heart hammered in her chest, too fast, too loud. the weight of her emotions, the ones she kept buried under layers of sharp words and brittle indifference, started to break free. slowly, quietly, without any warning. she bit her lip hard, the pressure doing nothing to stop the sting rising in her chest.

and then, just like that, she felt it. the quiet crumbling inside her. the tension, the anger, the sadness—all the things she thought she’d put away, forgotten or buried—spilled out in the form of a single, shaky breath.

she didn’t look at him. didn’t react. but something in her shifted.

then, without a word, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

she didn’t wipe it away. she didn’t speak. there was no need to. the weight of the past days, the anger, the fear, the exhaustion—it all sat heavy on her like a stormcloud.

he saw it. he always did.

and without hesitation, without asking or saying anything, he stepped forward and pulled her gently into his arms.

at first she froze, body rigid against him like she didn’t know how to be held. but then—like something inside her finally cracked—she melted forward and buried her face into his shoulder, her hands clutching the sides of his jacket.

that’s when the sobbing started.

not loud. not dramatic. just quiet, broken sounds pressed into his chest, like she was finally letting go of something she'd been carrying alone for far too long.

she was trembling.

he didn’t need her to say anything—he never did. he could feel the way her hands gripped his jacket like it was the only thing keeping her together. the weight of her against him wasn’t heavy, but it pressed into something deeper than he wanted to admit.

he’d seen her like this before. not often. only when everything else slipped.

and each time, it broke something in him he didn’t know had edges.

he didn’t ask what was wrong. he just held her tighter, like maybe if he stayed still enough, long enough, she’d remember she wasn’t alone.

that was enough for him. for now.

the last bell rang like a sigh of relief through the halls of hagwon high school. she gathered her books in the same careful, habitual way she did every day—spine aligned, corners unbent. neat. predictable. safe.

“hey, want to come with us today?” one of her friends asked, already looping her arm through the other girl’s like they always did.

she gave her usual soft smile, the one that almost looked apologetic. “i can’t. cram school.”

a chorus of groans and mock complaints followed, but they knew better than to push her. she always said no. she always left.

outside, the late afternoon sun was dipping into gold. she stepped out of the school gate, tightening her grip on her books. her pace was steady, eyes focused, her mind already wandering to formulas and grammar drills. she didn’t see them coming.

a loud shout snapped her attention up—then impact.

someone slammed into her from the side, full force. her books scattered like leaves in the wind. her body reeled from the hit, knees wobbling as she nearly stumbled to the pavement.

“what the—”

she barely got the words out when her eyes locked with his.

he was tall. wild dark hair falling into sharp eyes, lips parted as if about to say something—but he didn’t. time felt like it dragged its feet through molasses. the world blurred into silence, just her heartbeat in her ears and the gaze of this stranger who felt more like a storm than a boy.

seong je.

neither of them spoke.

then the moment shattered. more footsteps thundered past. he turned without a word and ran after the others, disappearing around the corner of the school with two other boys in black jackets, chasing the ones who’d bolted ahead.

she stood still, breath caught somewhere between shock and fury. her palms stung from the scrape, her books lay across the sidewalk like wounded soldiers, and her heart was doing something very un-academic.

“rude,” she muttered under her breath, kneeling to gather her things with a tight jaw.

she didn’t say anything more, but her cheeks stayed warm longer than they should’ve. and even as she walked to cram school, posture straight and mind set on forgetting him—

she didn’t.

and she definitely held a grudge.

the week crawled by.

@ . !

she buried herself in textbooks, cram lectures, and routines with military precision. if she distracted herself enough, she could almost forget the way her chest had fluttered after that run-in. almost.

but every time she replayed the moment—the crash, the eye contact, that boy’s breathless stare—her heart betrayed her with a skip. it irritated her. and she hated that even more.

it was friday now. the sky threatened rain, thick clouds crowding the edges of the afternoon. she stepped through the school gates, books hugged tightly to her chest, ready to head straight to cram school. same path, same time, same her.

then she saw them.

a group of boys loitered outside the convenience store across from the school—laughing too loud, smoking like it was oxygen, tossing snack wrappers to the ground. they took up space like they owned it.

and among them, leaning against the wall in that effortless, careless way—him.

seong je.

she froze for a second. her gaze caught him automatically before her brain could tell her to look away.

he was laughing at something, but his eyes didn’t match the sound. they looked half-present, distant, until they slowly shifted—

—and landed on her.

their eyes met.

her grip tightened on her books. the world shrank to a straight line of tension between them, drawn by the static of something unspoken.

then, like flipping a switch, she scoffed.

a tiny, precise sound. enough to cut. enough to dismiss.

she turned her head and walked on, as if he were just a piece of background noise—forgettable.

he blinked, watching her braid sway behind her as she disappeared. his cigarette burned down between his fingers.

“yo,” one of his friends nudged. “she looked like she wanted to kill you with a math textbook.”

he didn’t answer. he didn’t smile, either.

but the corner of his mouth twitched—just slightly.

@ . !

it had been three days since then.

three days of nothing. and yet, that scoff lingered. it echoed louder than most people’s shouting.

he shouldn’t have remembered her at all. but he did.

that’s why, when the back gate of hagwon high creaked open late one evening, he was already there—leaning against the wall, alone now, smoke curling faint in the air, hands tucked in his pockets.

he didn’t say anything right away. just waited.

she nearly jumped when she spotted him.

“hey,” he said.

she stared. “what do you want?”

he shrugged. “just thought i’d say sorry.”

she blinked. that wasn’t what she expected.

“for what?”

“that day,” he said. “i ran into you. didn’t stop. should’ve.”

“you were chasing someone,” she replied, folding her arms. “like some violent lunatic.”

he gave a short laugh. “you remember.”

“i remember being shoved halfway across the sidewalk. so yes. vividly.”

he pushed off the wall, stepping a little closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to meet her eyes fully.

“i don’t usually run into people,” he said, voice lower now. “that one was on me.”

she raised an eyebrow. “and what, now you’re trying to make it up to me by ambushing me after class?”

he didn’t smirk this time. he just looked at her.

“no,” he said. “just thought you should know my name.”

she hesitated.

“it’s geum seong je.”

there was a beat of silence. then:

she replied with her name carefully. “but don’t remember it. i don’t plan on seeing you again.”

he nodded slowly. “right.”

she turned slightly, ready to go—but paused when he spoke again.

“…you like tteokbokki?”

she blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

“there’s a cart a few blocks from here. pretty decent.” he paused. “i’ll pay.”

she stared at him. suspicious. defensive. a little confused.

“…why?”

he shrugged, hands still in his pockets. “dunno. thought maybe next time i crash into someone, it could be over food.”

her eyes narrowed. “there won’t be a next time.”

“maybe.” a pause. then, almost too casually: “you got a number?”

it wasn’t flirty. it wasn’t smooth. it was blunt, like everything else about him. as if he was asking for a weather update.

she stared at him for a moment longer. then scoffed again—slightly softer this time.

“no.”

she walked past him.

but she didn’t walk fast.

and he watched her go, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he wasn’t planning to ask again.

but also, like he absolutely would.

@ . !

she told herself she wasn’t thinking about him.

of course she wasn’t.

that ridiculous guy. that smoker. that rule-breaker who somehow made eye contact feel like a punch to the chest. she didn’t think about the way his voice dipped just slightly when he said her name. she definitely didn’t replay that stupid question about tteokbokki in her head while brushing her teeth.

she had cram school. real priorities. a future.

and besides—he wasn’t serious.

he was just… playing around. guys like that always were.

so when she took the usual route after school, bag slung over her shoulder and heart calm, it wasn’t for him.

it was never for him.

until it was.

she turned the corner near the back alley—the narrow one that led to the station—and froze.

there he was.

seong je.

alone. hands bruised. breathing heavy.

kneeling over a guy who clearly had the worst day of his life.

she stopped.

he didn’t notice her right away—too focused on whatever debt he was collecting with his fists. she watched, expression unreadable. this was the kind of scene people ran from. she should’ve. it wasn’t her problem.

but something in her chest… sank.

she shook her head once, sharply, and kept walking.

then—

“you’re just gonna walk past me?”

she sighed.

footsteps behind her. steady. lazy. familiar.

“where you going?” he asked.

“none of your business.”

“i’ll make it my business.”

she turned her head slightly. he had a cut on his lip and dirt on his jacket. still walking beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“don’t you have someone else to bother?”

“already did. you saw.”

she gave him a sharp side-eye. “why are you following me?”

“still owe you.”

“for what? you apologized. done. over.”

he glanced at her. “thought you might want to eat something.”

“i don’t.”

“don’t believe you.”

she stopped walking.

“i have cram school. three hours. minimum.”

he didn’t even flinch. “i’ll wait.”

“…excuse me?”

“i’ll wait,” he said again, like he was talking about the weather. “not doing anything tonight anyway.”

she scoffed under her breath. “whatever. do what you want.”

and she walked off—quick, clean, braid swaying behind her like a flag of dismissal.

@ . !

three hours later.

she stepped out of the cram school building, stretching her neck and rubbing her eyes, half-asleep from equations.

and he was still there.

leaning against the wall across the street, earbuds in, arms crossed. as if he hadn’t moved at all.

their eyes met.

she blinked. “…seriously?”

“you thought i was lying?”

she opened her mouth. closed it. looked down at her feet.

“you’re insane,” she muttered.

he gave the smallest shrug.

“you hungry now?”

“…maybe.”

“i’ll pay.”

she sighed like it exhausted her—but something in her eyes softened.

“fine,” she said. “but this is only because i don’t want you standing around like some creep all night.”

he nodded. “sure.”

“stop agreeing with me.”

“okay.”

she glared. he looked smug. she walked.

he followed.