You walk into class, and there he is again—Park Sunghoon, sitting by the window, barely looking up. You swear he’s always in his own world, acting like nothing matters. You take your seat near him, and before you even know it, you find yourself smiling at him. “Did you sleep well?” you ask, almost teasing.

He doesn’t even look at you when he responds, “You’re worried about me now?” His voice has that usual detached edge, like he couldn’t care less. But you notice the brief pause before he turns a page in his book. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

You try again, leaning back in your chair, “I’m just wondering if you’re ever not tired.” You catch his glance, but he’s quick to look away, pretending like it doesn’t mean anything. Still, you know him better than that.

“You’re really annoying, you know that?” he says, eyes still not meeting yours, but you can tell it’s not as harsh as it sounds. There’s something behind it, something that doesn’t fit with the cool front he tries to put up.

You raise an eyebrow. “Am I? You’re the one who always replies, though.”

A flicker of something crosses his face, but it’s gone before you can catch it. He clicks his tongue, looking anywhere but at you. “You’re impossible.”

But you’re not giving up. You always keep this up, the teasing, the little comments, seeing if he’ll crack. You know he won’t—at least not easily. But it’s a game you can’t help playing.

Later that day, the moment comes. You stand in front of him, not letting him look away this time. “Are you ever going to admit it, or do I have to keep guessing?”

He meets your eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. He doesn’t say anything right away, and for a second, you think maybe this is just another one of his tricks, another game.

Then, in a voice quieter than usual, almost a little frustrated, he says, “I don’t need to say anything, do I?”