Seoul always felt like a runway. Everyone dressed to be seen—even at school.

You? You were the girl everyone watched. Designer blazer over your uniform, lip gloss perfectly applied, phone always in hand. Your life was fast, loud, and curated like an Instagram feed.

And then he showed up.

He walked into Class 3-B with a stiff bow and a nervous smile.

“Yang Jungwon,” he said quietly. “I moved from Namhae. Please take care of me.”

The accent was faint, but there.

He looked like he still said hello to neighbors and helped his mom hang laundry.

You didn’t give him a second glance.

Until he gave you one first.

You were walking out of the convenience store near school, sipping peach soda, when he stepped aside to hold the door open for you.

You blinked. “You always this polite?”

He smiled politely. “Yes.”

“Even in Seoul?” you asked, a little amused.

He nodded. “My father says manners don’t change with location.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cute. You’re gonna hate this place.”

“I don’t hate things easily,” he said simply. Then paused. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer. You just turned and walked off, heels echoing on the pavement.

The next time you talked, it wasn’t your choice.

You’d gotten into it with a teacher—again—for skipping study hours. You weren’t in the mood, and you were storming down the hallway when you almost crashed into him.

“You okay?” he asked, steadying you.

You looked up, about to snap. But his eyes weren’t judging.

“You’re seriously too nice for this school,” you muttered.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to be like everyone else.”