Ji-hye sat cross-legged on the floor of the empty classroom, the door locked, her bag spilled open beside her. Cotton pads. Antiseptic. Bandages. All things she pretended she wasn’t good at doing for him.

Baku leaned back against a desk, shirt torn at the collar, knuckles scraped, a split on his eyebrow she was pointedly ignoring.

“Hold still,” she snapped, dabbing disinfectant a little harder than necessary.

He hissed. “You enjoy hurting me.”

“You enjoy getting punched,” she shot back without looking up. “So we’re even.”

There was a quiet moment—just the sound of her breathing, focused, careful despite her tone. Then Baku spoke, softer than usual.

“I can be whatever you want me to be.”

Her hand froze.

She scoffed immediately, like a reflex. “You’re dumb.”

He smiled, bloodied and stupid and earnest. “I can be that.”

Her head snapped up before she could stop herself.

Their eyes met.

For half a second, Ji-hye forgot how to breathe.

Why would he say that so easily? Why does he look like he means it? Why does my chest hurt?

Her fingers trembled just once.

Then she looked back down, grabbed another cotton pad, and pressed it to his cut like nothing happened.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

But her touch was gentler now.

Baku watched her quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips, because even if she acted like she hated him—

She was still there.