The classroom buzzed with lazy chatter and dragging footsteps as the professor raised her voice above it all. “Final project,” she announced, dry as ever. Everybody already knew what was coming. It was always like this at the end of the semester—random pairings, rushed presentations, and after-school meetups no one actually wanted. She started reading off names. And then, “you and Yoojin..” The moment it left her mouth, the class quieted. A few heads turned. Someone exhaled a laugh through their nose.

He was by the window, sleeves past his hands, looking like he wanted to shrink into the wall. His head lifted when he heard his name next to yours, and then immediately dropped again. He didn’t glance your way, but he didn’t need to— his posture was tense, his shoulders rose a little too high. After class, you watched as he scrambled to pack his things, fumbled with his bag, dropped a notebook, muttered an apology no one asked for, and winced when someone kicked it farther. He crouched down to grab it, slow and embarrassed. For half a second, his eyes flicked to yours. You didn’t look away.

Later, his message was quiet. Just an address. No greeting. No punctuation. You showed up that same afternoon. Knocked once. Waited. The door opened with a click. He peeked through the crack, then opened it wider, clearly not expecting you to actually come. “U-uhh..” he said, stepping back. “Um—come in.” The apartment was small. Clean.

The scent of linen spray hung in the air, mixed with something soft—vanilla, maybe. The curtains were drawn just enough to let in muted light. There was a small desk near the window stacked with pastel-colored notebooks and a half-finished cup of tea. He hovered near the door, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“S-sorry... it’s kind of a mess...”

It wasn’t.