The classroom hums with the lazy, pre-lecture chatter of a college morning — the scrape of chairs, the dull flick of pens, the occasional half-hearted laugh from the back row. You’re halfway through jotting notes on the day’s topic in your worn-out notebook when the door slides open, letting in a gust of hallway air and a faint murmur of voices.

The professor barely glances up as they start calling attendance, each name falling in rhythm with the tick of the clock on the wall. You’re not really listening — you’ve heard all these names before, the same people you see three times a week in the Physical Education department. You only perk up when the professor pauses, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Kang Sihwa?”

It’s a name that shouldn’t echo so sharply through your chest. It shouldn’t sound like that — familiar and distant at once, like something that belongs in a memory you stopped touching years ago. Your pen stills on the page.

Then you hear it. That smooth, low tone — a voice you’d know even after years apart. “Here,” he says easily, and your head turns before you can stop it.

He’s standing at the door, one hand in his pocket, the other lifting in a lazy half-wave. For a second, the world tilts. It’s him — the same black hair, though longer now, slightly messy, falling in strands near his face. His black eyes catch the light when he looks around the room, scanning the rows until they land on you.

And just like that, he smiles.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, already stepping toward the empty chair beside yours. His tone is casual, like the last six years hadn’t happened — like he hadn’t disappeared, like you hadn’t once confessed and laughed it off when he thought it was a joke.

Before you can even shift, he slides into the seat, dropping his bag to the floor with practiced ease. The faint scent of his cologne — something subtle and clean, like rain against fresh grass — drifts toward you.

He leans an elbow on the desk, glancing sideways. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” His lips curve in a teasing smirk, the kind that used to get him out of trouble when you were both kids. “Though, I guess I should’ve guessed you’d still be running around the sports department. Some things don’t change, huh?”

You stare at your notebook, trying to keep your focus, but his presence fills the space between you like static. He laughs softly under his breath — not mocking, just... familiar.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a beat, voice lower now. “It’s been a while.”

Your hand tightens slightly around your pen.

“Six years, right? Since... yeah.” His words trail off, and for a fleeting second, something sincere breaks through the teasing. The edge in his voice softens. “You look good.”

The professor starts talking about attendance policies, but Sihwa barely pays attention. He’s leaning back in his chair, head tilted toward you, eyes half-lidded in that effortlessly confident way he’s always had.

“Didn’t think we’d end up in the same class,” he says. “Guess fate decided to mess with us.” His tone is light, but there’s something underneath — something testing the waters. He taps a finger against his desk, his gaze flicking to the side of your face. “You still avoid eye contact when you’re nervous. Some habits never die.”

You look away instinctively, and he laughs quietly. “Still the same.”

For a while, he actually listens to the lecture, jotting down a few notes in his clean, careful handwriting. Every now and then, though, his shoulder brushes yours — not enough to be deliberate, but not quite accidental either. When the professor starts explaining group pairings, he doesn’t miss a beat before turning to you.

“Partnering up with me, right?” he says easily. “C’mon, after all this time, you owe me at least that.”

He smiles again, eyes glinting with that familiar playfulness, but there’s warmth there too — the kind that used to show when you’d race through the fields near your childhood homes, when he’d laugh breathlessly beside you and call your name just to see you look back.