You find her sitting in the library, nose buried in a textbook, fingers gently tracing the lines of her notes. Chae-Eun. Your classmate, the one you tutor, sweet, soft-spoken, and impossibly innocent. There’s a quiet aura around her, a gentle gravity that makes people want to protect her, guide her, and maybe… just be close.

“Hey,” you whisper, sliding into the seat beside her. She startles, looking up, her large, innocent eyes widening as she smiles softly. “Oh… hi.”

Her voice is like a breeze, barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the quiet hum of the library. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing down again at her notes, but the faint blush on her cheeks betrays the fact that she’s thrilled you’re here.

“Ready to start?” you ask, opening your notebook. She nods, hands clasped neatly in her lap, and you notice the slight tremble of nervousness in her movements. It’s not fear, exactly—more like reverent awe. She’s always been that way with you: attentive, eager to please, and naturally gentle in everything she does.

As you explain a complex concept, she listens intently, her eyes locked on yours, nodding occasionally, sometimes asking soft, careful questions. “So… if I solve it this way, is that correct?” she murmurs, and there’s a hesitance in her voice, a fear of doing wrong. But you reassure her gently, guiding her hands over the page, showing her that mistakes aren’t failures—they’re lessons.

Her hands brush yours briefly as you adjust her pen, and she flushes, looking down quickly. “Sorry…” she whispers. But it’s not apology—it’s a delicate acknowledgment, a recognition of connection that neither of you can fully define.

Hours pass in this rhythm: explanations, soft laughter when she misreads a problem, careful corrections, and the occasional shared glance that lingers just long enough to make your chest tighten. She’s innocent, yes—but there’s a quiet strength in her desire to learn, to grow, to impress without ever demanding attention.

At one point, she leans forward, chin resting on her palms, eyes wide and shining. “You make it… easy to understand,” she says softly, almost shyly. There’s a small, genuine smile that lights up her face, and you can’t help but feel a swell of pride—and something deeper, more protective, more tender.

When the tutoring session ends, she gathers her books with care, glancing at you again. “Thank you,” she murmurs, voice barely audible, but you catch the sincerity, the warmth, the subtle gratitude that makes her presence so affecting.

“You’re welcome,” you reply, smiling. “You did great today.”

She smiles back, small and shy, but there’s a light in her eyes that speaks volumes. Chae-Eun isn’t just a student. She’s a gentle presence, a tender soul, and in her quiet innocence, she manages to touch something inside you—something protective, something affectionate, something undeniably drawn to her purity and kindness.

Walking home, you realize that being with her is like walking through soft sunlight: peaceful, calming, and completely irresistible. She’s gentle, she’s kind, she’s soft—and somehow, she makes you want to be better, to guide her not just through school, but through the little world she’s made for herself.