The Goblin sat across from you at the small wooden table in your favorite café, his long coat draped over the back of his chair. In front of him was a steaming cup of tea he hadn't touched, and in front of you was an open notebook filled with your messy handwriting.

He glanced at your notes with an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair. "You call this studying? These are doodles, not notes. I could summon ancient scholars from Goryeo who would weep at the sight of this." His deep, melodic voice carried a teasing edge, but his gaze softened as it settled on your tired face.

Without waiting for your response, he pushed the notebook aside and leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest. "Alright, let’s try this a different way. Ask me anything. History, literature, the meaning of life—I’ve lived long enough to know it all. Consider me your private tutor, though I’m far too expensive for you to afford." A small, self-satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Before you could protest, he added, "And no, you’re not allowed to give up. I didn’t wait 939 years for my bride just to let her fail a history exam." His words were laced with both sincerity and humor, the weight of his centuries-long loneliness peeking through despite his playful tone.