JIAH POV
"Jiah."
He says my name like a warning, like he's about to do something and wants it on record that I was notified.
I spin back around, yanking against his grip, adrenaline flooding straight to my mouth. "What?" I snap. "What now?"
He opens his mouth.
He doesn't get to finish.
The locker room door explodes open so hard it smacks the wall and rattles the lockers.
Cold air rushes in, loud and sudden, carrying the gym with it—shouting, sneakers, chaos spilling into a space that was supposed to be sealed off from stupidity.
And then—
Swish.
The punch lands.
I don't even see it properly. Just a blur of motion and the sound, sharp and wrong and too real, like someone smacking raw meat against a counter.
Enhyeok's head jerks to the side with the impact, his grip on my wrist loosening instantly. I stumble back a step as my arm slips free, fingers curling into nothing, my whole body freezing like it forgot how to run the rest of its systems.
I stare.
My brain stalls so hard it feels like static fills my skull.
Because standing there, chest heaving, eyes wild and reckless and painfully familiar, is Baek Jiho.
I gasps.
It tears out of my chest before I can stop it, sharp and ugly, because nothing in my brain had this on the list of possible outcomes.
Not this. Not Jiho storming into a locker room like he owns it, knuckles red, breathing like he just sprinted a mile fueled entirely by bad decisions.
Enhyeok straightens slowly.
He doesn't say anything.
For half a second, I think he might actually lose it. Like really lose it. Like scream or swing back blind or do something loud and messy that proves he's human.
He doesn't.
He turns his head back toward Jiho, calm in a way that makes my stomach flip in the worst possible direction. His lower lip is split, just enough for a thin line of red to appear. He presses his tongue to it absentmindedly, testing the cut like he's bored.
My brain, traitorous piece of trash, goes—
Damn, that's hot.
bitch what the hell???
I immediately want to file a formal complaint against myself.
Enhyeok smiles.
Not a nice smile. Not even a mean one. It's lazy. Almost amused. Like Jiho just handed him exactly what he wanted.
"Well," Enhyeok says mildly, voice low and steady, "that was stupid."
Jiho steps forward, shoulders tense, jaw locked so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding. "Get your hands off her," he snaps, pointing at Enhyeok like he's one wrong breath away from doing it again.
I open my mouth to yell that I didn't ask for this, that I had it under control, that nobody needed to start throwing punches over me like I'm a dropped wallet.
Enhyeok doesn't give me the chance.
He moves.
Not fast. Not rushed. Just… precise.
His fist connects with Jiho's face with a sound that's worse than the first one. Deeper. Heavier. Like something breaking its promise to stay intact.
Jiho stumbles back, momentum completely wrecked, his heel catching on the bench behind him. He goes down hard, shoulder hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoes way too loud in the room.
Everything stops.
My heart is slamming so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingers, in places that should not be aware of my heart. This is not a scuffle.
This is not a misunderstanding. This is a full-blown disaster unfolding in front of my face and I am standing dead center in it like the world's dumbest bystander.
Enhyeok steps toward Jiho again, fist already tightening like he's considering finishing the thought.
"Stop—" I start, but my voice comes out thin and useless, like a suggestion instead of a command.
Before he can swing again, the room floods with adults.
Coach Lee's voice hits first, loud and furious. "HEY! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"
Mr. Han is right behind him, face pale and tight, eyes darting between Jiho on the floor, Enhyeok standing over him, and me frozen in the middle like a glitch in the system.
"Are you out of your minds?" Mr. Han shouts. "Both of you!"
The PE teacher grabs Enhyeok's shoulder, yanking him back a step. Another teacher crouches next to Jiho, already asking if he can stand.
The locker room is suddenly too small, too bright, too full of authority and consequences.
Everyone freezes.
Including me.
I feel it then. Real fear. Not embarrassment. Not anger. Actual, stomach-dropping, soul-sinking fear.
This is bad.
This is really bad.
This isn't detention bad. This is office bad. This is parent-call bad. This is Seo Jiah, explain why you were at the center of a fistfight between two top students bad.
Coach Lee points straight at them. "Office. Now."
Enhyeok doesn't argue.
Jiho doesn't either, though he's still breathing hard, eyes flicking once toward me like he wants to say something and doesn't know how without making it worse.
Enhyeok looks at me.
Really looks at me.
His eyes aren't empty anymore. They're sharp, focused, unreadable in a way that makes my skin prickle. He doesn't say my name. He doesn't smirk. He just holds my gaze like he's daring me to blink first.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know where to put my hands or my eyes or my face. All I can think about is my parents, my mom's disappointed silence, my dad's long sigh, the way my life might actually implode because I thought wearing a jersey and holding a stupid poster would be funny.
I fucked up.
I fucked up so bad.
And as they start pulling them apart, voices overlapping, teachers shouting instructions, students crowding the doorway trying to see, I realize something horrible and unavoidable.
This isn't over.
Not even close.
------------------
The principal's office smells like old paper, dust, and disappointment.
Not metaphorical disappointment. Literal, soaked-into-the-walls disappointment. The kind that's probably absorbed generations of bad decisions, stupid fights, and students who thought this won't be that serious.
We're lined up in front of his desk like criminals waiting to be processed.
Jiho is on my left.
Enhyeok is on my right.
And I have never wanted to melt into the floor more in my entire life.
The principal is on the phone, back turned to us, voice low and sharp. I can't hear who he's talking to, but I don't need to. His shoulders are tense.
His jaw keeps clenching. That alone tells me this call is not good news for anyone whose name starts with Seo, Baek, or Yu.
I sneak a glance at Jiho.
Bad idea.
His lower lip is swollen and split, blood dried dark at the corner of his mouth. There's a faint bruise already blooming along his cheekbone, angry and purple like it showed up early just to be dramatic. He looks tired. Not scared. Not angry. Just… done.
Guilt crawls up my spine like an itch I can't scratch.
Then my eyes betray me again and slide right.
Enhyeok's lip is cut too, but it's cleaner. Less dramatic. Like even his injuries are efficient. There's dried blood, but not much, and he's standing there relaxed, shoulders loose, gaze drifting around the office like this is a mildly inconvenient errand.
He looks at me.
Raises an eyebrow.
Not aggressive. Not mocking.
Just—look what you did.
My stomach drops.
I look at the floor immediately, tiles suddenly fascinating, wishing I could sink into them and live there forever as a square of shame.
The phone clicks.
The principal turns back around and puts it down slowly, carefully, like it personally offended him. He stares at the three of us for a long second, disappointment radiating off him in waves so strong I swear my skin tightens.
"What," he says calmly, which is somehow worse than yelling, "is going on here?"
No one answers.
Of course no one answers.
Silence stretches. My brain is screaming say something, but my mouth is glued shut, sealed by regret and the sudden realization that my parents are going to end me.
The principal sighs and rubs his temples. "Yu Enhyeok."
Enhyeok straightens a fraction. Just enough to acknowledge the call-out.
"You are a prestige student," the principal says, eyes sharp. "Top scores. Model behavior. What is this conduct?"
My brain, unhelpful as ever, goes:
Prestige because he scores a lot? That's it? That's the whole criteria? Bullshit.
I keep my head down.
The principal turns to Jiho. "Baek Jiho. I never expected this from you."
Jiho swallows and nods once, jaw tight.
Honestly? Same, bro.
Then the principal's gaze slides to me.
"And you," he says. Just that. "Well."
That single word feels like a punch.
I drop my head further, shoulders curling in. If embarrassment were physical, I'd be a fossil right now.
"Who started this?" the principal asks.
My heart slams.
This is it.
This is where I say me. This is where I take responsibility like a functioning human being instead of a walking disaster. My mouth opens.
"I—"
"I did."
Enhyeok's voice cuts in clean and calm.
I snap my head up so fast my neck hurts.
"What?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Jiho looks at him like he's lost his damn mind.
Enhyeok doesn't look at either of us. He looks straight at the principal, posture easy, voice steady. "I caused the altercation. I struck Baek Jiho. I apologize."
The room goes very quiet.
My brain short-circuits.
Does he hate his life?
Is this a cry for help?
Is he allergic to self-preservation?
The principal blinks, clearly not expecting that. He exhales slowly, fingers steepling together. "Baek Jiho. Are you injured badly?"
Jiho hesitates, then shakes his head. "No, sir."
"You may go to the nurse and have that treated," the principal says.
I freeze.
What.
Jiho freezes too, surprise flickering across his face. He glances at Enhyeok once, conflicted, then nods. "Yes, sir."
He turns to leave, pauses for half a second like he wants to say something, then doesn't. The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with the human embodiment of audacity and the principal.
The principal sighs again. "As for you two… you will clean the basketball court and the school yard after classes. One month."
My brain explodes.
That's it??
No expulsion? No suspension? No call to my parents where my mother goes deadly silent?
Just… cleaning?
I stare in disbelief.
Enhyeok bows politely. "Understood, sir."
I jerk into motion, bowing so fast I nearly headbutt the desk. "Yes, sir."
We're dismissed.
The hallway feels unreal, like I stepped out of a fever dream. Enhyeok is already walking away, long strides, ten steps ahead without even trying.
"Hey!" I jog after him. "Yu Enhyeok!"
He doesn't slow down.
I catch up anyway, breathless and irritated. "Why did you say it was your fault? Why didn't you say Jiho did it?"
He finally glances at me, expression flat. "For what? So you can cry later that I got your little crush expelled?"
I roll my eyes hard enough it hurts. "Oh my god, you are unbelievable."
He keeps walking. "Did you get enough attention from him now?"
That one hits.
I stop.
He takes two more steps before he realizes I'm not following.
"I'm sorry," I say, quietly. It surprises even me. "For… all of this."
He stops.
Turns.
Looks at me for a long moment, unreadable as ever.
Then he says nothing.
Turns back around.
And walks away.
I stand there, watching his back disappear down the hallway, stomach heavy, chest tight, knowing one thing for sure.
I really, really messed this up.
_______________
ENHYEOK POV
She's sorry??
She should be.
The thought hits sharp and immediate, not relief, not satisfaction, just irritation settling deeper into my chest as I walk away from the principal's office.
My shoes echo down the hallway, the sound too loud in the quiet that always follows trouble. Classes are still running. Everyone else is pretending nothing happened, which somehow makes it worse.
Sorry doesn't rewind anything.
Sorry doesn't erase the image burned into my head of her standing there, screaming his name, wearing my jersey like it was a joke she could afford to make. Sorry doesn't fix the fact that half the school saw it, filmed it, will replay it like entertainment.
And the worst part—worse than the poster, worse than the noise, worse than the damn fight—is that she cheered for him while wearing mine.
That part sits wrong. Twisted. Like someone took something that wasn't theirs and dragged it through the dirt just to see what would happen.
I don't slow down.
The hallway bends toward the bathrooms near the gym, and my lips sting as the adrenaline finally drains enough for pain to register. I hiss quietly and press my tongue against the cut again, tasting metal, irritation flaring fresh.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, fingers brushing my mouth before dropping back to my side.
Seo Jiah.
What the hell do I even do with you?
The question doesn't come with emotion attached. It's not curiosity. It's not concern. It's the same way you look at a problem that keeps reappearing no matter how many times you shove it out of the way. Unnecessary. Persistent. Loud.
I reach the restroom and push the door open halfway.
Then I stop.
"I should've punched him more."
Jiho's voice.
I freeze, hand still on the door, muscles going still on instinct. The smell hits next. Cigarette smoke, stale and sharp, curling into my nose like it owns the place. Great. So not only is he reckless, he's also stupid enough to smoke on campus.
Another voice answers, lower, unfamiliar. "You already did enough, man."
Jiho scoffs. "Nah. One more would've felt right."
I don't move. The door stays cracked just enough for sound to slip through. There's laughter, low and careless, the kind people make when they think they got away with something.
"Why'd you even go in there in the first place?" the other guy asks.
There's a pause. I picture Jiho leaning against the sink, cigarette dangling between his fingers, acting like this was all some impulsive hero moment instead of a calculated mess.
"I wanted to make a scene," Jiho says finally, like it's obvious.
"For what?"
A beat.
"To make a good impression in front of her."
My jaw tightens.
Of course.
Of course that's what it was.
The locker room. The punch. The dramatic entrance. All of it framed like some stupid highlight reel where he gets to look noble and unhinged and protective at the same time. The kind of thing people clap for later.
The other guy snorts. "You serious?"
"Yeah," Jiho says easily. "She was in there with him. I wasn't just gonna stand around."
Silence hums for a second, broken only by the faint sound of smoke being exhaled.
Then the other voice comes back, sharper now. "Why do you keep doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Making her feel chosen," he says. "When you already have a girlfriend."