The classroom was dead quiet except for the soft hum of the rain outside and the occasional flick of Bang Chan’s lighter.

Lee Minho sat near the window, hoodie pulled up, pretending to ignore the boy across the room. But he wasn’t really ignoring him. No one could ignore Bang Chan—not when he was lounging back in a chair like it was his throne, legs spread, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the glint of a gold chain and the curve of his collarbone.

Minho hated how good he looked. He hated how everyone fell for it. And most of all, he hated the way Chan had been flirting with Jihoon earlier—laughing too loud, leaning too close, biting his lip like he meant it.

Jihoon was just a substitute for attention. And Chan always needed someone drooling over him. Minho wasn’t going to be that person.

Chan looked up suddenly, catching Minho’s glare. “What? Something on my face?” Minho scoffed. “You’re disgusting.”

Chan smirked, like he liked being called that. “You always stare when I flirt with someone else. Starting to think you want me to flirt with you instead.” Minho stood up, jaw tight. “Get over yourself.”

“Oh, baby, I got over myself a long time ago.” Chan rose from his chair too, walking toward Minho. “But you… you’ve got that little twitch in your jaw. Every time you see someone touch me.” “I don’t care who touches you.”

“Sure. That’s why you looked like you were going to murder Jihoon during gym.” Minho clenched his fists. “That guy’s a joke.”

“And what am I?” Chan stepped closer. Close enough that Minho could smell the faint trace of cologne, mixed with cigarettes and rain. Minho didn’t move.

Chan tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. “You don’t hate me, Minho. You hate that you want me.” Silence stretched thick between them. The kind that could snap or combust.

Minho’s voice finally came out, low and bitter. “If I wanted someone easy, I’d pick anyone but you.” That made Chan’s smile drop—just slightly. Just enough to make Minho feel like he won something.

But then Chan chuckled. Dark and quiet. “Don’t worry, Min. I’ll keep messing with other people. Since you clearly don’t care.” He turned to walk away—but Minho grabbed his wrist. Hard.

“Don’t,” Minho said through his teeth. “Don’t touch them like that again.” Chan raised a brow. “Why? You jealous?”

Minho didn’t answer. Because they both already knew the truth.