YU.
FUCKING.
ENHYEOK.
MY PERSONAL TUTOR???
I swear the universe wakes up every morning and chooses me as its punching bag. Like God's alarm rings and he's like, "Ah yes. Time to bully Seo Jiah again."
I choke on my own spit. "Ms. Park—why? WHY? No, seriously, WHY HIM?? I don't need—like—that. I don't need HIM. I'll study! I'll do better! I'll—read numbers! I'll love math—"
She cuts me with the calmest voice ever.
"Then pass the test."
Pass the test.
PASS.
THE.
TEST.
Oh my god.
"Y—YES. I WILL." I slap my chest like I'm pledging allegiance to something. "I'll pass. I'll PASS HARD. I'll work my ass off. I'm gonna defeat math. Beat its ass. Fight for my LIFE. It's literally better than—than tutoring with this—this cold MENACE—"
Enhyeok doesn't even look up.
Not even a side-eye.
He's just there doing math in his notebook like the equation is flirting with him.
x, y, √something, whatever. Nerd shit.
No wonder he's always in the top list. Cold, scary, rich, AND smart?? God really said "let me cook a villain."
The bell rings.
THANK YOU JESUS.
Korean Literature time.
Mr. Han Jaewoo walks in, takes one look at the chaos of Class 2-3, and sighs like we personally ruined his twenties.
Same, bro. Same.
I drop into my seat again and my body just whispers,
I want to go home. Sleep. Cry. Hydrate. Make a 27-step strategic plan to make Jiho fall for me.
Mr. Han starts rambling about poems or pain or patriotism—I'm not sure because my brain checked out immediately.
So obviously, I start doodling.
I draw Jiho.
Or… attempt to.
What I actually draw looks like a potato with hair.
I'm staring at Potato-Jiho thinking "damn I'm talented" when—
SCOFF.
Loud. Sharp. Rude.
Right next to me.
I freeze.
Slowly turn.
Enhyeok is looking at my doodle like it personally offended his ancestors.
"What?" I hiss.
He nods at my paper. "Is that your little crush?"
Little.
Crush.
LITTLE???
"I—It's NONE of your business," I grind out, sounding like an angry teapot.
He leans back slightly.
Smirks.
THE SMIRK.
The "I could ruin your life with one syllable" smirk.
"What if it is?"
My soul leaves my body through my nostrils.
I grab my pencil.
I doodle a giant middle finger right next to Potato-Jiho.
I make it EXTRA detailed. Like an art project.
He raises one eyebrow.
Smirks harder.
Who allowed his face to move like that??
Then—
"Jiah? What's wrong?"
I JUMP so hard I nearly swallow my pencil.
Mr. Han is staring right at me.
The whole class turns like a flock of nosy pigeons.
NOT AGAIN.
WHY AM I THE MAIN CHARACTER OF EMBARRASSMENT TODAY.
I force a smile that looks like a dying emoji. "Nothing, sir!"
"You sure?" he asks, stepping closer like I'm a wounded animal.
"Yes!! I'm fine—perfect—alive—functioning—"
He reaches into his pocket.
And hands me a candy.
A.
Fucking.
CANDY.
"Here," he says kindly. "Eat this. It'll make you feel better."
The class EXPLODES.
Laughter everywhere.
Banging desks.
Snorting.
Someone claps.
I want to die.
I want to slip under the floor like a ghost.
I slowly raise both hands under the desk…
and flip everyone off behind the teacher's back.
Every single one of them.
Except Haerin and Bora because I'm not a monster.
I sink into my seat and whisper to myself,
"I swear to god… why did I confess to Jiho publicly… fucking idiot behavior…"
Beside me, I feel a stare.
I look.
Enhyeok is already watching.
Silent.
Sharp.
Eyes like he sees EVERYTHING.
And for one tiny second—
the corner of his mouth twitches.
Not a smile.
More like…
he finds me entertaining.
God help me.
It's almost lunch but Mr. Han is STILL talking.
About poems.
Or trees.
Or trauma.
IDK. My brain is buffering like bad WiFi.
My eyelids keep dropping.
Like physically dropping.
Heavy as fuck.
I'm about to enter sleep mode right there—
BUT EVERY TIME I CLOSE MY EYES—
BAM.
The confession scene jumps me like a crackhead in an alley.
Jiho's voice.
Cold.
Soft.
Final.
"I don't have any feelings for you."
God.
It hits like a punch every time.
Like someone dragging a butter knife across my chest and going,
"Lol let's make her bleed for fun."
It's so stupid.
SO stupid.
Why do I like him this much???
This school has like—what—an entire Avengers lineup of handsome boys??
My CLASS literally has four fine specimens.
Enhyeok alone looks like he was printed in a luxury factory.
Jeonhwa looks like a manhwa panel.
Minseok looks like he showers.
Taeyoung is literally tall and hot and stupid in a cute way.
And still.
STILL.
It's Jiho.
My first love.
FIRST love.
And he said no again.
Again.
God, my heart feels like soggy paper.
My eyes sting—
A little burn at the corners—
No.
NO. WE DO NOT CRY IN CLASS.
I bite my lip.
Blink away the tears.
Swallow that shit down like expired medicine.
Then—
The bell rings.
THANK. FUCK.
I wipe my eyes fast, slap on a smile like I didn't just almost cry over a boy, and sit up.
And then—
Of course—
My bun says "bye bitch" and completely falls apart.
My hair spills everywhere like a crime scene.
"Where's my hair tie??" I mutter, digging through my pencil case, bag, pockets. "Bro WHERE—why am I ALWAYS losing these stupid things?? Do I have beef with hair ties???"
I turn to the Problem™ next to me.
"Did you see my hair tie?"
He doesn't even glance.
Not even a millimeter of eye contact.
Just a cold, low, "No."
Rude.
RUDE ASS BASTARD.
.
I grab another random tie, struggle my hair back into a bun like I'm wrestling a wild animal.
Haerin and Bora rush over.
"Lunch?"
"Yes PLEASE before I die,"
We start walking out—
And behind me…
I SWEAR I feel eyes.
Burning into the back of my head.
Sharp.
Focused.
Judgy.
I don't turn around.
I don't have to.
---
By the time I get home, I'm done.
Not like "tired."
Like mentally disowned by the universe done.
I kick off my shoes and they fly in two different directions like they're divorcing each other. My bag lands on the floor with a sad thud. The apartment is dark. Quiet. Of course. Mom and Dad are still in OT, probably elbows-deep in some surgery and won't be back till morning.
Cool. Awesome. Love being raised by walls.
I flick on the lights, drop onto my chair like a dying NPC, and stare at the math book on my desk.
Just stare.
As if staring will magically download the knowledge into my skull.
"Who the hell invented math?" I whisper. "No, seriously. What demon decided numbers should have letters in them? Why is this a thing? Why. Is. Korea's. Math. So. Aggressive."
I open the book.
It glares at me.
I glare back.
We're enemies.
I grab my pencil, crack my knuckles like some budget boxer, and start trying to solve problem number one. Immediately want to cry. Not even real tears. The soul-leaving-the-body kind of cry.
I scribble. Erase. Scribble again. The page starts looking like a battlefield.
I lean back in my chair, groaning. "Bro, if I get a nosebleed right now, I swear—at least I'll die a martyr."
But then—
THEN—
My brain betrays me.
Guess whose face pops up.
Not Jiho.
Nope.
The universe decides to play a sick joke on me and suddenly it's Yu Enhyeok in my head. Looking all cold and perfect and annoyed for no reason, like I offended his ancestors by existing next to him.
"Did you see my hair tie?"
"No."
God, that voice.
Deep. Calm. Zero effort.
Why does he talk like he's narrating a luxury perfume ad?
Why is he always so… still??
Like a statue but hotter and ruder.
I smack my cheeks lightly. "Nope. Nope. We are NOT thinking about him. Focus. Math. Numbers. Trauma."
Because if I fail this test, Mr. Han is going to pair me with someone for tutoring. And if fate REALLY hates me—
It'll be him.
The window seat menace.
The human fridge.
The walking silent alarm that keeps ringing in my peripheral vision.
Just imagining being tutored by Enhyeok makes my stomach twist. Not butterflies. More like a washing machine on spin cycle.
He'd sit there with his stupid perfect posture, breathing like he invented oxygen, and every time I make a mistake he'd probably blink slowly like, "Are you serious?"
Ughhhh.
No.
No way.
I'm passing this test even if I cough up my soul.
I bend over the book again and start attacking problem number two like it personally offended me. My handwriting slowly deteriorates into hieroglyphics. I mutter every five seconds. I pull my hair. I threaten the textbook. I promise myself snacks if I finish one question.
My eyes are burning, my back hurts, and the clock keeps ticking like it's mocking me.
But I keep going.
Because I'd rather fight math itself than sit next to Yu Enhyeok after school while he judges my entire existence with those stupid sharp eyes.
I slam my pencil down.
"Bro. I'm passing this. I'm PASSING this. I refuse to be tutored by that man."
________________________________
ENHYEOK POV —
The shower's still steaming when I step out, towel over my head, water dripping down my neck. My hair's a mess—half wet, half annoyed—kind of like me.
I'm drying it when Ms. Park's voice hits me again.
"If she fails, you'll tutor her."
I stop wiping.
Tutor her?
Tutor Seo Jiah?
I snort under my breath.
"No fucking way."
I'd rather swallow a brick. I'd rather let Minseok shave my head. I'd rather sit through Taeyoung trying to explain memes for an hour.
Me. Teaching her.
That girl doesn't listen when the universe itself talks to her. She zones out mid-sentence. She loses everything she owns. She drew a potato and claimed it was Baek Jiho.
And she's supposed to listen to me?
Yeah, right.
If she fails, she fails. Not my problem. I'm not her babysitter. I'm not wasting my time repeating basic shit while she stares into space or doodles birds with huge eyelashes.
I toss the towel aside, comb my fingers through my hair, and pace because my brain suddenly won't shut up.
And I hate that.
I don't know why the hell she had so many reactions today.
She usually ignores me like I'm a piece of furniture—fine, I prefer it.
But today?
She glared at me.
Talked to me.
Raised her voice.
Asked me about her hair tie.
Drew me a whole middle finger on her paper like a toddler with anger issues.
My jaw twitches remembering it.
She looked me dead in the eye and drew it slowly. Like she wanted to make sure I saw every stroke.
Stupid.
So stupid.
My eyes drift to my desk.
And the problem starts there.
Top of the table: a small, brown, hair tie.
Hers.
The one she spent half the afternoon searching for like she was on a national treasure hunt.
I found it stuck in my book when I opened it earlier.
She asked me if I saw it.
And I said no.
Because what?
I didn't want to?
I didn't feel like talking?
I didn't want her thinking I picked up her shit?
No.
Not that.
I didn't want to see her face brighten. Like I did something for her. Like I was useful to her.
It annoyed me.
…It also did something else, but I'm not naming that.
I pick up the hair tie.
It's warm. Probably from my lamp. Not her. Definitely not thinking about that.
Her hair…
Yeah. Brown. Wavy. Always tied up in some messy bun that never survives one full class.
It spills everywhere when it falls.
She gets annoyed every time.
I don't know why I notice that.
I shouldn't.
I walk to my drawer.
Open it.
Inside, there's a small pile.
Nine hair ties.
All hers.
I stare at them like they're evidence in a crime I didn't mean to commit.
I don't even remember when I started collecting them. It wasn't on purpose. She drops them everywhere—hallway, classroom, gym floor—and I just… pck them up.
I don't return them.
I don't know why.
I put the tenth one inside, close the drawer, lean against it, exhale.
This is weird.
I rub my jaw, shake my head, try to shut off whatever the hell this is.
She better pass that test.
Because if she doesn't—
I'm not sitting next to her after school, pretending I'm unaffected while she chews her pencil and smells like strawberry milk and chaos.
No.
Absolutely not.
…She better pass.