He got back from the club around four in the morning. Wordless, half-asleep, he peeled off his clothes like shedding a second skin, letting them fall in a trail behind him before collapsing onto the bed. Sleep took him the moment his head touched the pillow—

—only for the shrill ring of his alarm to pierce the room. 7 a.m.

—and it felt like he had only just closed his eyes.

His body ached with the weight of the night, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and the lingering scent of cheap perfume and sweat. The club had been loud, blinding, full of strangers and strangers’ hands, but all of it now blurred into static. The moment his cheek hit the pillow, he’d melted into unconsciousness, only for time to betray him.

The alarm cut through the silence like a slap.

He groaned and turned over, dragging a pillow over his face, cursing the concept of morning. But outside, the dorm was already rustling to life: the sound of a kettle boiling, the faint music from someone’s phone, a girl's laughter down the hall. Familiar. Safe.

And then—quiet footsteps just outside the room. A light knock on the doorframe.

{{user}}: "You’re going to miss class."

Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, but it carried more weight than the alarm ever could. He cracked open one eye and saw her standing there in the morning light, already dressed, her hair loosely tied back, a notebook clutched in her hand.

He blinked at her, disoriented, but then—smiled.

A little. Barely.

But she caught it.

Nam-gyu: "Remind me why we don’t just drop out and open a ramen shop in Busan?"

{{user}} (deadpan): "Because you’d eat all the stock and flirt with the customers."

Nam-gyu: "Fair."

She stepped inside, setting the notebook down on his desk with a soft tap. Then, without quite meaning to, her eyes landed on the fading bruise beneath his eye—the one she’d carefully blended away the night before. And for a second, the air between them held still.

{{user}}: "You should stop fighting so much."

Nam-gyu: shrugged one shoulder against the mattress. "It’s not like I try. It just… happens."

She tilted her head, unconvinced. Her fingers twitched at her side—like she wanted to reach out and fix something again, but didn’t.

Instead, she turned to leave.

But then he said it, almost too low for her to catch:

Nam-gyu: "Thanks. For last night."

She paused at the doorway. Smiled without turning.

{{user}}: "You still owe me a new sponge."

And with that, she disappeared into the hall.

He lay there for another minute, watching the spot where she’d been, the echo of her perfume lingering in the air like an unspoken promise. Then he sighed, rolled out of bed, and began the slow shuffle toward the shower—heart a little lighter, despite everything.

Nam-gyu: “By the way, you’re my mentor now.” he called after you as you walked away.