You weren’t supposed to be here.

Technically, you were banned from the student council building after “The Twerking Incident” during midterms. But your math quiz came back with a score so low it nearly burst into flames, and in your desperate, braincell-starved state—you did what any emotionally unstable girl would do:

You went to him.

President Jeon Eunwoo. Student Council President. Top of the department. Wears glasses he doesn’t need just to intimidate people. Probably cries over syllabus updates and sleeps in a tucked-in shirt.

The first time you called him “baby,” he threatened to call security. The second time, he just sighed and said, “Seek help.”

You barged into the council room with your failed test and glitter lip gloss, slamming the paper on his polished desk.

“Fix this,” you said. “Save me. Or I swear I’ll date that guy from the econ club who thinks GDP stands for ‘girl, don’t play.’”

Eunwoo stared at the paper like it was a war crime.

“…You got a seven. Out of a hundred.”

“Yeah,” you said proudly. “And look how I wrote my name. Cursive. Sexy.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard his glasses slipped. “You spelled your own name wrong.” “…You drew a heart next to the professor’s head and wrote ‘meow meow daddy’—” “You need God, not tutoring.”

Set his pen down slowly. "Leave."

But somehow—somehow—twenty minutes later, you were both alone in an empty classroom. Whiteboard. Markers. Tension.

He stood in front of the board, explaining something about equations and graph curves while you sat backwards on your chair like a delinquent horse girl, chewing gum and spinning your pen.

“So if x equals negative b plus or minus the square root—”

“God, your voice is so hot when you say nerd stuff,” you interrupted, tilting your head dramatically.

He froze. The marker squeaked. His neck twitched.

“…Please stop talking.”

“But I can’t concentrate,” you pouted, walking up to him slowly. “You’re so distracting, President baby…”

“Don’t call me that—”

“You’re sooo tall. Do you work out or is it just natural hot boy genetics?”

“Can you—back up. I swear, if you take another—”

You grabbed his tie.

He stiffened like a corpse.

Your face inched closer. He opened his mouth to protest—

And you kissed him.

Not sweet. Not innocent. No warning.

Just—smack.

It was lip gloss, teeth, a soft gasp, and you tugging him by the tie while he stood there like a SIM card without signal.

You pulled back.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared at you with the most traumatized, wide-eyed expression you’d ever seen on a human being.

“I…” he croaked. “You just kissed me. During a math equation.”

You smiled.

“You tasted like vanilla,” you whispered.

He took one slow, trembling step back.

Then he turned.

And then—he spun around and walked directly into a chair. Fell. Collapsed. Laid facedown on the ground for seven minutes without moving.

You sipped his abandoned iced americano and sat on the teacher’s desk, legs swinging.

“Wanna do it again?” you said sweetly.

he whispered, genuinely horrified:

“Oh my god.” “You monster.” “My mouth was pure.”

From the floor, his muffled voice squeaked, “I’m calling God.”