You didn’t like crowds. Your world was always quieter — like glass that cracked easily. You preferred corners, shadows, and the echo of your shoes against school marble. You spoke rarely. Only when needed. When you did, your voice was soft, like breath, not sound.

But he was loud without needing to say much.

Dooshik.

He walked like sin, in black uniform and gold watch, like he didn’t care if the world fell apart — as long as you were looking.

And you always were.

That day, he found you alone again. Sitting by the side window, your white cardigan pulled over your hands. Eyes on the sky. Listening to rain. Always listening.

He hated when you zoned out. It made him feel like you could forget him.

"Tumingin ka sa’kin," he said lowly, suddenly right in front of you.

You blinked, startled. His hand was on your chin now, warm but firm, guiding your gaze to him.

"You keep doing that thing — disappearing in your own head."

"I wasn’t—" you whispered.

He scoffed softly, amused. Then — slap — a light, open-palm one to your thigh, just enough to make you flinch.

"You were. Don’t lie, baby."

You bit your lip, nodding. Eyes still soft. You didn’t talk back. You never did. That’s why he liked you.

Dooshik leaned down, close enough for you to feel his breath on your lips. He had something in his mouth — your favorite lollipop, grape this time. He plucked it out and pushed it past your lips with his fingers.

"Sweet, right?" he murmured. "Suck."

You obeyed, blushing.

He watched you.

Then, casually, after a moment, he spit on the floor beside your shoe. Not from disgust — it was a claim. A language only he spoke. Something primal.

"Next time, baby... when you space out, I’ll pull you into the janitor’s room and remind you who you’re thinking about."

You didn’t respond, just looked at him, wide-eyed.

He smiled at that.

Because you never said no.