JIAH POV
The final whistle screams.
His team wins.
Chaos erupts. People jump, scream, hug, cry. The usual mess of bodies and noise and victory breath. Confetti doesn't fall, but it feels like it should with how loud the gym gets.
Enhyeok doesn't celebrate.
He turns.
And starts walking toward me.
Not smiling. Not blank.
Rage.
Pure, focused, coming straight for me.
My grip tightens on the poster. My fingers shake before I can stop them, a tiny betrayal my body commits without asking permission.
I curl them harder around the cardboard like that'll hide it. Like anyone's looking at my hands and not the seven-foot problem marching this way.
Oh.
Shit.
I don't move.
Not because I'm brave. Not because I'm fearless. Because my legs forgot how to work and my brain is screaming this was funny two minutes ago, you idiot.
Everyone's looking. I can feel it. Phones up. Whispers blooming. Eyes darting between us like it's a live episode and they don't want to miss the part where someone snaps.
Bora leans in close, voice low and grim. "You are done, Jiah."
Bitch, don't say it like that.
I swallow and lift my chin anyway. If I'm going down, I'm not doing it hunched over like an apology.
He stops right in front of me.
Too close. Way too close.
I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes, and that's when it really hits. They're dark. Not dramatic dark. Not movie villain dark.
Just… stripped. Sharp. Like everything unnecessary got cut out and only anger made the final edit.
He looks at the poster first.
Not me.
The sign.
Like it offended him personally.
"Tear it," he says.
His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. It lands heavy anyway.
I blink. "What if I don't?"
He looks at me then. Slowly. Like he's measuring how stupid I'm being.
"You will."
I smirk because my mouth hates me. "I won't."
A beat.
Then, flat and final, "Then I will."
He reaches out.
I don't have time to react before his hand clamps onto the poster and rips it clean in half. The sound is ugly. Paper tearing like something giving up. The pieces hang for a second before he lets them drop.
Something snaps in my chest.
"You can't act like this," I shoot back, voice sharp, too sharp. "You don't get to—"
He grabs my wrist.
Firm. No warning.
A collective gasp ripples through the bleachers like a wave. Someone says my name. Someone else says oh my god.
Before I can even process it, he's dragging me off the court, through the side door, sneakers squeaking, my arm stretched tight between us.
I stumble trying to keep up, heart pounding so hard it feels like it's punching my ribs from the inside.
"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss, but my voice comes out thinner than I want.
The locker room door slams shut behind us.
The noise drops instantly.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
My stomach sinks.
Regret hits late but vicious, curling cold in my gut. This was a bad idea. This was such a bad idea. I'm not some fearless main character.
I'm a girl who talks too much and commits to jokes that go too far and now I'm alone in a locker room with a very angry basketball god.
He lets go of my wrist and steps back just enough to lock me in with his body blocking the door.
I rub my wrist without thinking. It stings.
"Back off," I say, even though my voice wobbles just a little. "What are you doing?"
He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. "You really have the audacity to pull that shit?"
I cross my arms, more for stability than attitude. "What did you think?" I snap. "That I'd swallow everything you say and be a good girl about it?"
He laughs once. Short. Cold. "Oh. I never thought that about you."
It lands wrong.
I feel it immediately.
"Oh," I repeat. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," he says. "It's supposed to be accurate."
My jaw tightens. "You're such an ass."
"You're an attention seeker," he shoots back.
"What?" The word hits like a slap. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "All that noise. That jersey. The poster. Was it worth it? Did your little crush notice you?"
My chest burns. "Watch your mouth, Enhyeok."
"Then know what you're doing first," he snaps. "You wore my jersey and cheered for him. You think that makes you bold? It makes you obvious."
I laugh, sharp and ugly. "Obvious about what? That I don't care about you?"
He steps closer. "That you need eyes on you to feel real."
My throat tightens. I hate that he says it like he knows. Like he's diagnosing me.
"Stop acting like you know me," I fire back. "You don't."
"I know enough," he says. "Enough to see you turn this place into a circus just so one guy might look your way."
I flinch before I can stop it.
He sees it.
Good. I hate that he sees it.
"Did he?" he presses. "Did Jiho look at you the way you wanted?"
I step forward, anger blazing hot now. "You don't get to talk about him."
"Why?" he challenges. "Because it hurts when the answer's no?"
Silence stretches.
For half a second after he asks if Jiho looked at me the way I wanted, I actually see red. Not metaphorical red. Literal, hot, blinding, oh I might commit a felony red.
My hand twitches at my side.
Oh my god.
I want to slap him.
Not a dramatic slap. Not a movie slap. A real one. Palm-to-cheek. Make-his-pretty-face-regret-existing slap.
My brain immediately starts yelling do NOT, because if I slap Yu Enhyeok, I will absolutely be expelled, sued, publicly executed, and possibly buried under the gym bleachers, but my body is already halfway there.
I step closer instead, invading his space on purpose, chin tipped up, teeth clenched so hard my jaw hurts.
"Say his name one more time," I tell him, voice tight and sharp, "and I swear I'll rearrange that stupid face of yours."
His eyes flick to my raised hand.
He doesn't flinch.
He just scoffs, low and ugly, like I'm a joke he's already bored of. "Don't be stupid," he says. "You're already making it obvious enough."
That does it.
"Obvious about what?" I snap. "You think I planned this for you? You think anything I do has you in mind?"
He laughs again, but this time it's worse. No humor. Just disbelief. "You wore my jersey into this gym."
"So?" I shoot back. "It's fabric. You don't own the color black."
"You wore it and screamed his name," he says, voice steady but mean, every word lined up like he practiced them. "And you're surprised people are staring?"
I gesture wildly around us. "Newsflash, genius. People stare at basketball games."
"Take it off."
I blink. "What?"
His gaze drops to the jersey like it personally insulted his ancestors. "The jersey," he says. "Take it off."
My laugh bursts out, sharp and incredulous. "Why would I?"
"So everyone can see it," he replies calmly. "See you for what you are."
I tilt my head, smiling without warmth. "And what's that? That I'm cheering for A loser?"
That finally gets him.
He smiles too, slow and cruel, and it scares me a little how controlled it is. "Everyone here already knows who the loser is."
Something in my chest cracks open.
Not sad.
Not hurt.
Just pure rage, bubbling up like soda shaken too hard.
Fine.
If he wants a show, I'll give him one.
I grab the hem of the jersey and yank it up over my head without breaking eye contact.
The air hits my skin cold and sharp, the locker room lights suddenly too bright, but I don't care. I peel the stupid thing off, fists it up, and throw it straight into his chest.
It hits him square in the face.
For one perfect second, his eyes close on impact.
I savor it.
He lowers the jersey slowly.
And when he looks at me again, my stomach drops.
I've never seen him like this.
Not angry-angry. Not loud. Not messy. This is worse. His eyes are dark and empty, like something shut off behind them, like I just crossed a line he didn't even warn me about.
"Here," I say, breath hard, hands shaking now but I refuse to let him see it. "Take it. Happy now?"
I don't wait for an answer.
I turn, already planning my dramatic exit, already mentally drafting my wow that was stupid spiral for later, when—
His hand grabs my wrist.
Hard.
"Jiah."
He says my name like a warning.
I spin back around, yanking against his grip, furious all over again. "What?" I snap. "What now?"
He opens his mouth.
He doesn't get to finish.
The locker room door flies open so hard it slams into the wall.
Air rushes in. Noise. Chaos bleeding back through the crack.
And then—
Swish.
A fist connects with Enhyeok's face.
The sound is sickening and sharp, skin on bone, and Enhyeok stumbles back a step from the force of it.
His grip loosens instantly, my wrist slipping free as I freeze in place, heart stopping so hard it feels like my body forgot its next instruction.
I stare.
My brain stalls.
Because standing there, chest heaving, eyes burning with something feral and reckless and stupidly familiar is-
Baek Jiho.