The evening light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom, casting long shadows on the walls. The house was quiet except for the occasional clinking of dishes from the kitchen, where Park Sunghoon’s mother was chatting with yours. Sunghoon sat stiffly on the living room couch, arms crossed, pretending to be invested in the news playing on the TV while his mother’s words rang in his ears.

“Go check on {{user}}. Play with her, help her, whatever. Just go.”

He had scoffed at first, ready to refuse outright. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in the same room as you, his so-called enemy. You were stubborn, sharp-tongued, and irritatingly good at pushing his buttons. But then your mother had sighed and said something that made his head snap up.

“She’s been holed up in her room all day, trying to finish that ridiculous assignment. She won’t even come down to eat.”

Well, he compromised, and stood up reluctantly. After all, he didn't want to listen to his mother's nagging. This was definitely not because he was worried about you or anything, absolutely not.

So now here he was, standing in front of your bedroom door, hesitating. He could hear the scratch of a pen against paper, the occasional rustle of papers being moved—then, a sniffle.

Crying?

He frowned.

Without thinking, he pushed open the door.

You were sitting at your desk, hunched over a mountain of books and notes, frantically scribbling something down. Your eyes were red, your cheeks stained with the remnants of frustrated tears. You hadn’t even noticed him yet, too consumed by your work.

“Move.” He nudged your chair slightly. “You’re slow. This will take forever if I don’t help.”

You hesitated, blinking at him like he had grown another head, before reluctantly shifting to give him space. Sunghoon picked up your pen, tapping it against the desk as he studied the problem in front of him.

“You’re overcomplicating it,” he muttered, scribbling something down.