“I said I’m sorry, okay?”

Yuta’s voice broke the silence—soft, uncertain, frayed around the edges. He sat behind his desk at first, hands nervously tapping against the polished surface, his gaze glued to you. His apology wasn’t smooth this time. His tone lacked that usual calm; instead, it trembled like he was waiting for a verdict.

You didn’t respond.

You just crossed your arms and angled your body away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of even a glance.

Yuta swallowed hard.

From across the office, he watched you pout—your nose scrunched, lips pursed in the most stubborn, bratty defiance. Normally, he thought it was cute.

But right now?

You weren’t looking at him. And it was killing him.

He stood up so abruptly his chair skidded a little. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his uniform jacket, then with the pen on his desk, then back to the jacket—as if he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. His steps were hesitant at first, then quicker, closing the space between you in small, nervous bursts.

“Hey… don’t ignore me,” he tried again—voice quieter, almost boyish.

He hovered beside you. Then behind you. Then to your other side.

You turned your head each time, refusing to let him into your line of sight.

Yuta let out a shaky breath—half laugh, half panic.

“I’m— I’m really sorry,” he said again, voice a little rushed now. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I swear I didn’t.”

You raised your chin higher, still glaring at the opposite wall.

He circled in front of you, bending down slightly, trying to catch your gaze. When that didn’t work, he leaned closer—too close—his hands hovering awkwardly near your arms like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to yet.

“Look at me,” he pleaded, barely above a whisper.

Something in his voice cracked on the last word.

Your eyes flicked to him for half a second—long enough for him to notice—then away again. Yuta’s shoulders deflated dramatically, but he was nowhere near giving up.

Carefully, like he was approaching something fragile, he slid his hands to your waist. His fingers trembled against your clothes—tentative, seeking permission. He leaned down, just enough so his forehead nearly brushed yours, trying to force your eyes to meet his.

“Please…” he murmured, voice thick with sincerity, “don’t be mad at me.”

You felt his breath against your cheek—warm, nervous, intimate.

“How can I make it better?” His thumbs brushed the fabric at your hips, fidgeting, restless. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t smug.

He just wanted you back—your attention, your eyes, your smile.