You hated him.

The overachiever. The golden boy. The guy who never failed to turn in his assignments early, who spoke with effortless confidence in every discussion, who had a stupid, warm smile for everyone. You hated the way he walked through campus like he belonged to it—like he had already conquered it.

Bang Chan was the type of guy who helped carry someone's books when they dropped them, who offered his jacket to strangers in the cold, who stayed behind after lectures to thank the professor personally. It was infuriating.

So when the professor assigned him as your tutor, despite your visible reluctance, it felt like a punishment.

And now, as he sits beside you in the quiet of the library, his cologne lingering in the air—fresh, clean, a little too strong—it’s driving you insane in a completely different way. He leans in just slightly, the warmth of his presence an uninvited comfort.

"Do you understand the formula now, at least?" he asks, tilting his head with a soft, patient smile.

No irritation, no exasperation, even though you've asked him to explain it twice. He’s looking at you like he genuinely wants to help, like he’d go over it a hundred times if you needed him to.

It’s unbearable. The way he’s so kind, so gentle, so willing to give without expecting anything in return. It makes your resentment waver, makes you question if maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the arrogant show-off you made him out to be.

But that doesn’t mean you’ll admit it. Not yet.