JIAH POV
"Solve it," he says evenly.
I stare at him like he just suggested ritual sacrifice.
"Or what," I scoff, leaning back in my chair with my arms crossed, because there is no universe where I take him seriously right now.
He leans back too, slow and deliberate, folding his arms like he's settling in for a show. His eyes stay on me.
Not blinking. Not rushing. The silence stretches, thick and deliberate, pressing down on my ears until I'm painfully aware of the buzz of the lights overhead.
"If you get the answer wrong," he says calmly, "you have to call me Your Grace and tell me you were wrong and an idiot all the time."
My brain short-circuits.
"What the fuck?" I say out loud before I can stop myself. "Over my dead body."
He shrugs. Actually shrugs. Like this is a reasonable offer and I'm the one being dramatic.
"Then solve it," he replies. Simple. Final.
He glances at his watch, taps it once with his thumb, and looks back up at me. "Your time starts now."
"Oh my god," I mutter, grabbing my pen. "Fuck."
I lean over the notebook, eyes scanning the problem again, heart already pounding like I'm about to defuse a bomb instead of do math.
What the actual hell is this question. Who invented this. Why are there so many brackets. Why does it look like it hates me personally.
I start writing anyway, pen moving too fast, brain trying to keep up. Numbers blur. I second-guess myself immediately.
Erase. Rewrite. Shit. That's not right. I know it's not right. I could get it right if he wasn't sitting there radiating smug calm like a serial killer at a picnic.
"Time's up," he says.
"No," I snap. "Two more minutes."
He doesn't argue. He just reaches forward and slides the notebook out from under my hands.
"Hey—" I protest, but it's already gone.
He glances at the page for maybe half a second, then closes it.
"It's wrong."
"You didn't even look at it," I say incredulously.
"I don't need to," he replies. "You messed up the second step."
Arrogant bastard.
My jaw tightens. "Why are you like this?"
He doesn't answer. Just watches me. Waiting.
I want to flip the table. I want to launch his stupid neat notebook across the room. Instead, I sag back in my chair, exhausted and furious and so done with him.
I exhale sharply through my nose. "Fine."
The word tastes like poison.
"I was wrong," I mutter, teeth grinding. "And an idiot all the time."
He tilts his head slightly. Expectant.
I glare at him. "Don't push it."
He says nothing.
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Your… gra…ce."
When I open them, he's looking away.
And he's fighting a smile.
That tiny, traitorous curve at the corner of his mouth makes something snap in me.
"I will kill you," I hiss.
He lets out a short snort before he can stop it, turning his head fully away like that'll save him.
It doesn't.
Now I'm just mad at him and myself.
Stuck with this asshole.
As his seatmate.
___________________________
ENHYEOK POV
God. She's so fun to mess with.
I don't let it show. I never do. I just sit there, elbows loose on the desk, watching her combust in real time like it's a controlled experiment.
Her skin's flushed—neck, cheeks, Anger does that to her. Makes her louder without making a sound.
She's bent over the notebook now, muttering under her breath. Not even quietly. Just low enough to pretend she isn't threatening my life.
Something about my death. Probably creative. I deserve it.
I press my lips together. Barely works.
She taps her pen too hard. Bites the cap. Realizes it. Spits it out like it offended her personally. Starts again.
I could stop this anytime.
I don't.
"Do you know what your problem is," I say.
She doesn't look up. "Being your seatmate?"
I ignore it.
"That you think you're better."
She scoffs, sharp and immediate, like I flicked a switch. "I don't think I'm better than everyone," she says. "I think I'm better than you."
I glance at her.
"Same."
That gets her.
Her head snaps up. Full glare. Eyes bright. Furious. Alive. Like she's deciding whether murder is worth the paperwork.
I lean forward first.
"Let me show you where you messed up."
She exhales like she's been holding her breath for hours. A dramatic sigh. Still annoyed. Still listening. She drags her chair closer, leans in over the notebook.
Too close. Not touching. Just enough that I can see the crease between her brows when she concentrates.
I point.
"Second step," I say. "You rushed it."
"I didn't rush—"
"You did."
She bites her pencil again. Harder this time. I hate that. Genuinely irritating. Also—
Yeah. I look away.
I keep talking.
Numbers. Logic. Clean lines. The way the problem actually works if you don't fight it like it owes you money.
She follows. For real this time.
Her pen moves slower. Careful. She rewrites the step. Stops. Stares. Crosses it out. Does it again.
I don't say anything.
She hates that more.
"Is this right," she mutters.
I nod.
She freezes. Looks at me like she doesn't trust the universe.
"Don't lie."
I don't respond.
She keeps going.
Her knee bounces. She chews the pencil to death. Drops it. Picks it up. Writes faster now, confidence sneaking in like it's not welcome but it's staying anyway.
She finishes.
Looks at the answer.
Then at me.
I check it. Once. Enough.
She got it.
I exhale without meaning to. Quiet. Like relief slipped out when I wasn't guarding it.
She sees it.
Smiles. Not smug. Just tired and pleased and a little shocked with herself.
"Shut up," she says, even though I didn't speak.
I lean back. "Try another."
She groans. Loud. But she flips the page.
Fails again.
Swears.
Fixes it.
Fails less.
Gets it.
By the third one, she's not glaring at the notebook like it insulted her ancestors. She's actually thinking. Annoying. Impressive. I don't react.
"Why didn't you just say it like that the first time," she says.
I shrug.
She stares. "I hate you."
I nod. Fair.
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a drink. Shakes it. Takes a long sip, eyes still on the page.
I watch the way her throat moves before I stop myself.
"Did you say That thing to your friends," I ask.
She doesn't look up. "Say what?"
I pause.
"That we slept together."