Han Ji-hoon was known before he ever said a word.

Not because he was loud—he wasn’t. Not because he bragged—he never did. But because every student at Seongmin High knew the story:

He took down three upperclassmen by himself. Didn’t get suspended. Didn’t even flinch.

They said he grew up fighting in alleyways outside the city, learned to block punches before he learned how to tie his own shoes. Some said he was scary. Some said he was cool.

You thought he looked tired.

You noticed that first—before the rumors, before the scars, before the buzz that followed him through every hallway. There was a quiet around Han Ji-hoon, like he was carrying something heavy but didn’t want to show it.

And then, by accident, you met. It was raining that day, and the hallway near the back of the school was empty. You’d forgotten your umbrella again and were stuck, hugging your books like they could somehow shield you from the storm outside.

He appeared without a sound, hands in his pockets, soaked from the downpour. You flinched slightly when you saw him—he had that reputation, after all—but he just walked past, toward the vending machine.

Until he stopped.

He turned, eyes meeting yours.

“You waiting for someone?” he asked.

You blinked. “No. Just… waiting for the rain to stop.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he didn’t expect to find today.

Then, quietly: “You forgot your umbrella.”

You nodded.

He bought two drinks. Handed you one without a word.

You saw him more after that. Not intentionally. He just started showing up—by the stairs after class, near the field during break, leaning against walls like he didn’t care who noticed him.

But he always noticed you.

And then came the tutoring assignment.

You were good at math. He was… not. So the teacher paired you up. And just like that, you were stuck in the same room every Tuesday and Thursday, pretending you weren’t both awkward about it.

You learned a few things about Ji-hoon.

He lived alone with his older brother, who worked nights. He trained at a boxing gym near the river. He didn’t like ramen with egg. And he always knew when someone was lying.

He never offered much. But when he did, it meant something.

Like the time he lent you his jacket after a late tutoring session—too casual to seem romantic, but too thoughtful to ignore.

you saw the bruises on his ribs when he reached to grab a book.

You froze. “Ji-hoon—”

He pulled his shirt down. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

He paused, looking away.

“I don’t know how to be close to people,” he said quietly. “It’s easier not to be.”