The field was quieter now — the sky dimming to that cool violet that came after a long day. Most of the team had already packed up, their laughter fading into the parking lot. The faint smell of grass still hung thick in the air, mixing with the sound of running water from the track’s edge where the sprinklers had just come on.

You were still crouched by the benches, tugging your bag closed, trying to ignore the vibration of your phone lighting up again. The screen flashed Sihwa. You froze for half a second, watching it glow before pressing decline with your thumb.

The silence that followed felt too heavy. You shoved the phone into your bag, your face warm with that same lingering embarrassment that had been eating at you all day. You’d hoped the awkward fog from the other night — your slurred words, the sudden confession, the memory of his stunned silence — would just fade away on its own. But it hadn’t. It followed you, sitting heavy in your chest.

You pulled the zipper closed and stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. The sky was streaked with streaks of orange and gray, and the faint echo of sneakers against pavement filled the air as a few lingering students left. You were halfway toward the gate when you heard it — that familiar voice, sharp and clear even from across the field.

“Oi, you really just declined my call right in front of me?”

You froze.

Your heart dropped to your stomach. Slowly, you turned.

Across the field, near the bleachers, stood Sihwa. He was dressed casually — loose hoodie, track pants, hair slightly messy like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after class. His bag was slung carelessly over one shoulder, and his phone hung from his fingers as he looked right at you. Even from here, you could tell he’d seen everything — the ignored call, your attempt to disappear.

He walked toward you, his strides slow but certain, that same teasing half-smile already tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the quiet field, “most people at least pretend they didn’t see the call. You didn’t even try.”

You shifted your weight, unsure whether to move or stay put. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at you — the familiar warmth in his expression tinged with something else.

“What, are you avoiding me now?” he asked lightly, though his eyes flickered with a hint of curiosity. “You’ve been doing that all day. Didn’t think I’d notice?”

He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction. “Come on. You can’t even look at me?”

When you didn’t respond, he sighed through a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re seriously making this weird, you know that?” he said, though his voice was gentle now. “If it’s about the other night…”

The words hang there for a moment. You can feel the heat rise in your chest again, but he keeps his gaze steady, softer now.

“…you don’t have to worry about that,” he finishes. “You were drunk. You say things when you’re drunk.”

He smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “It’s not a big deal.”

The words are meant to ease the tension, but somehow they sting. He must see the way your shoulders stiffen, because his smile falters for just a second.

Then he exhales, shifting the bag off his shoulder. “Hey,” he says more quietly, the teasing gone now. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” He stops, runs a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed, okay?”

There’s a pause. The air between you feels thicker than before.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he adds, softer this time. “I was just… surprised.”

His eyes meet yours, steady and calm, but there’s something uncertain in them — something you haven’t seen before. “You caught me off guard,” he admits. “It’s been a long time since someone’s done that.”

He chuckles lightly, trying to ease the mood. “I mean, you really don’t hold back when you’ve been drinking, huh? You even called me loverboy.”

Your face burns instantly, and his grin returns, wide and genuine this time. “See? That’s the expression I missed.”