Jung Woojin’s life looked effortless from the outside. He was popular, wealthy, the star forward of the school soccer team. Hallways parted for him. Teachers praised him. Students admired him.

You didn’t care about his last name or the number of goals he scored. To you, he was just your student—the boy who struggled with math and glared at equations like they had personally offended him.

It began simply. After practice, he’d arrive at the library smelling faintly of grass, hair damp, jersey half-tucked. He would grumble about homework; you would scold him lightly. He rolled his eyes every time—but he always stayed.

Somewhere between algebra drills and mock exams, something shifted. He lingered longer than necessary. Smiled a little too brightly when you praised him. Watched you when you weren’t looking.

Then came the match.

“You’re coming, right?” he asked, too casual for it to be casual.

So you went. The stadium roared with energy. Woojin moved like he owned the field—fast, precise, untouchable. He scored, and the crowd erupted. He looked to the stands for you. You weren’t watching.

You were talking to someone else. A well-dressed boy from one of the elite families sat beside you, leaning in slightly. You listened politely, unaware of the way Woojin’s focus fractured on the field. He missed the next pass. His jaw tightened. Why was your attention somewhere else?

The final whistle blew. His teammates celebrated, but the noise felt distant. Without changing, without cooling down, he jogged straight toward the stands—toward you.

You turned at the sound of your name.“Woojin? You played great—”

“Hey.” His voice cut through yours. “Who was that?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“That guy.” His jaw flexed. “The one you were talking to the whole game.”

Before you could fully respond, he stepped closer, sweat still clinging to his skin, presence suddenly overwhelming.

“Who is he?”

There was no playful arrogance now. Just something raw. Something dangerously close to jealousy.