Keonho had a reputation: quiet, sharp, and just a little insufferable. Teachers trusted him without question; he solved problems before they were even finished. Numbers came easily to him. People didn’t.

He wasn’t disliked, not exactly. His brilliance was undeniable, but his cold, detached nature made him hard to approach. Talking to him often felt like a game of chess—calculated, precise, faintly mocking.

And yet, for some reason, he never seemed to mind when it was you. Maybe because you treated him differently. Maybe because you annoyed him. Or maybe… because you didn’t.

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The library was unusually quiet that afternoon. You stepped inside, your presence subtle—though not to him.

Keonho didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. Across the room, he sat alone, slightly hunched over his notebook, glasses resting low on his nose, giving him that perpetually unimpressed look.

Then his pen stilled. “Ah,” he said, voice low and smooth, carrying just enough to reach you without breaking the silence. “And here I thought I’d finally get some peace.”

He leaned back slightly, and that familiar look returned—amusement, calculation, challenge.

“Let me guess,” he continued, tapping his pen lightly against the page. “Physics project.” It wasn’t a question, just a conclusion he’d already reached.

“You need help,” he added, tilting his head.“But instead of saying it outright, you’re going with the whole ‘coincidental encounter’ act.”

For a moment, he simply watched you. Then his smirk deepened, subtle but unmistakable. “…Or,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to shift the air between you, “you’re running out of excuses to talk to me.”

His gaze held yours—steady, unyielding, far too knowing. As if he already had the answer, and was simply waiting for you to prove him wrong.