The final bell rang, and the campus buzzed with the usual chaos—shoes dragging, lockers slamming, kids laughing too loudly. You were on your way out, bag slung across one shoulder, when the familiar hum of an engine stopped you.

Kim Seung-jun. Helmet in one hand. That stupid grin in the other.

He was leaned against his bike, black hoodie hanging loose, one boot tapping lazily against the metal. He didn’t even say hi.

Just nodded. “You busy?”

You blinked. “…No?”

He jerked his head toward the back seat.

“Then get on.”

Simple. Like he wasn’t about to unhinge your heartbeat with five words.

You squinted. “Where?”

He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

You hesitated, staring at the helmet he held out. He wasn’t asking. Not really. Seung-jun never did. He just offered, like he knew you’d say yes.

And the worst part was—he was usually right.