You’re stuck sitting next to your enemy for the entire bus trip.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You’d argued with the teacher, tried to trade seats with anyone, literally anyone, but she shut down the chaos with one sharp look and declared, “Seats are final.”

So now you’re trapped beside Jun-ho: the boy who’s made the last three months of your life feel like some kind of competition you never agreed to. He’s a storm cloud, all brooding silence and sharp glances, a presence you can feel even when he’s not looking at you.

You’re determined to ignore him.

Thankfully, the guy in the aisle seat is…actually great. He’s funny, bright, easy to talk to. Within minutes you’ve discovered you share the same taste in music, the same hatred for cafeteria fish sticks, and the same embarrassing habit of overthinking everything. For the first time since boarding the bus, you feel your shoulders loosen.

But your eyes flicker to Jun-ho.

His hand rests on his thigh, fingers tapping—too fast, too tense. A warning sign you pretend you don’t see.

You focus on the aisle guy instead. He cracks another joke, and laughter bursts out of you before you can stop it.

“You’re so funn—”

“Hey.”

Jun-ho’s voice cuts through your sentence like a blade, low, deep, and unmistakably irritated.

You turn. His eyes look darker than usual, almost black. His hand has stopped tapping. Now it’s curled into a fist gripping his thigh, knuckles pale.

“Switch seats with me.”

he says. Not a request. A demand. Like the words themselves are pulled from something simmering, just beneath the surface.