JIAH POV
I'm mid-sip when he says it.
Cold. Casual. Like he's asking if I borrowed a pen.
"Did you say that thing to your friends?"
I don't look up because my brain is still busy celebrating that I solved three problems without throwing myself out a window.
I shake the drink once, take another pull, let the sugar hit my bloodstream.
"Say what?"
There's a pause.
Not dramatic. Just enough to feel intentional.
"That we slept together."
I spit.
Not a cute spray. Not a cough-cover situation. Full-on choke-and-expel like my body rejected reality on instinct.
The drink goes everywhere. The book. The desk. My sleeve. Probably my soul.
I cough so hard my eyes water. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just watches the liquid drip down the page like he's observing a science experiment he already predicted.
"Lower your voice," he says.
I slap the book closed, mortified and furious. "Why are you talking like that? Are you insane? What if someone hears us?"
"There's no one here."
"That's not the point," I hiss. "People misunderstand things. Especially when you say shit like that."
"I didn't say anything that invites misunderstanding."
I stare at him. Really stare. The audacity. The calm. The way he's sitting there like he didn't just nuke my sanity.
"We didn't sleep together," I say slowly, through my teeth. "We survived together. That's it. Friends do that. In dangerous situations."
The word friends hangs there.
Uncomfortable. Wrong. Like a shirt that doesn't fit but you keep wearing because you refuse to admit it.
He tilts his head. Just a little.
"Are we friends?"
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Because fuck. No. Obviously not. We're not friends. We're barely functional seatmates. We're enemies with homework benefits. We're whatever the opposite of comfortable is.
I scramble. "I mean— in another universe. Hypothetically."
He scoffs. Soft. Sharp. Done.
"Let's wrap up."
He starts packing his bag like the conversation never happened, like my lungs didn't almost evacuate my body two seconds ago. He stands, slings the strap over his shoulder.
"Tomorrow morning," he says. "Same place."
He turns to leave, then pauses just long enough to be annoying.
"And one more thing. I don't like waiting. Come on time."
I roll my eyes so hard I see my ancestors.
"Yeah, yeah."
He walks off.
And then it hits me.
The room feels bigger. Quieter. Wrong.
I look around. Empty desks. Darkness everywhere.The hallway outside looks longer than it did a minute ago, shadows stretching like they're trying something.
Oh hell no.
"Wait," I blurt, grabbing my bag. "Let me go with you. I'm scared."
He doesn't stop.
But his pace slows. Just enough.
I jog to catch up, muttering curses under my breath, heart still thudding from embarrassment and adrenaline and the fact that he dropped that sentence like it was nothing.
Walking behind him, I think—he will never soften. Not even by accident.
And somehow, that makes me more curious than I want to admit.
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I get home and immediately collapse on the couch like a body that's been spiritually mugged.
Shoes kicked off. Bag abandoned somewhere near the door. One leg hanging over the armrest, the other hooked on the cushion like gravity personally wronged me today.
The ceiling fan hums above, slow and lazy, doing absolutely nothing useful.
Rare miracle: my parents are home.
Both of them.
At the same time.
This literally happens once a month. Maybe less. I should take a picture.
I'm mid-scroll when my mom's voice cuts through the room. "Girls don't sit like that."
I roll my eyes so hard I'm genuinely worried they'll get stuck there and I'll have to live the rest of my life seeing the world sideways.
My dad clears his throat from the dining table. "Tonight, we have a dinner with a VIP."
"No," I say immediately. "I'm not coming."
My mom doesn't even look at me. "You are coming."
I sit up. "Why the fuck would I come to your friend dinner."
"It's not a friend," my dad says calmly. "It's one of my patient's family. They invited us to thank us for saving their father's life."
"That's literally your job," I shoot back.
My mom finally turns. One look. The period-at-the-end-of-the-sentence look. "You are coming. Period."
I mutter something into the couch cushion that is not respectful, not audible, but very heartfelt.
"Get ready," she adds.
I stare at the ceiling.
Is this a bribe for my parents? No. That's stupid. They're top surgeons at a major Seoul hospital. Of course they're treating VIPs. Rich people get sick too. Probably more dramatically.
I drag myself to my room.
Mom vetoes jeans within five seconds of opening my closet. Apparently denim is unprofessional and personally offensive to her ancestors. I end up in a dress. Simple. Clean. Unfortunately flattering.
I hate that part.
We get into the car. The drive is quiet in that polite, adult way where no one asks me how my day was but everyone assumes I'll behave.
The restaurant answers everything I didn't ask.
Five stars. Glass everywhere. Staff who smile like it's a skill they were trained in. Valet parking. Soft lighting that makes everyone look expensive by default.
Okay. Yeah. Whoever invited my parents is wealthy wealthy.
A staff member approaches immediately. "This way, sir."
Sir.
I glance back like he might be talking to someone else. Nope. He's already walking, confident we'll follow. Which we do, because apparently that's how this works.
We're led down a quiet hallway. Carpeted. Soundless. The kind where your footsteps feel illegal. He stops at a private room and opens the door.
Inside: a suited man, posture perfect. A woman in an elegant dress that probably costs more than my school fees.
An older couple seated beside them, calm, dignified, rich in that understated way that screams legacy.
Then my eyes flick to the last person.
Leaning back slightly. One ankle crossed over the other. School uniform jacket gone, replaced with something sharp and tailored. Hair styled just enough to look intentional. Eyes already on me.
A smirk curves his lips.
Looking straight at me.
Kim Jeonhwa.