The final bell had just stopped ringing when you shoved your notebooks into your bag and tugged your scarf tighter around your neck. Outside the hallway windows, winter had smothered the campus in white—thick snow on the courtyard, flakes drifting lazily now that the worst of the storm had passed.

You pushed open the doors, bracing for the cold… and for Su-bong.

He spotted you instantly. Of course he did. He was already standing in the middle of the courtyard like some chaotic snow-covered gremlin, cheeks red from the cold, hair dusted in white, and—most concerning—both hands piled with snowballs. Way more than you’d considered legally acceptable for one person to hold.

“There you are!” he shouted, grinning like someone who had made every single bad decision on purpose. “I was starting to think you chickened out.”

You blinked. “We didn’t agree to anything.”

“Mm, denial. Classic symptom of fear.” He tossed a snowball up, caught it with unnecessary flair, and smirked at you. Cocky. Absolutely full of himself. It was his trademark expression—half challenge, half invitation, all trouble.

You took one step forward. He launched the first snowball immediately.

It hit you squarely on the arm. Cold seeped through your coat, and you let out a sound that was part gasp, part offended shriek. Su-bong burst into laughter, nearly dropping the rest of his ammunition.

“You—! Su-bong!”

“Hey, I waited twenty minutes after class just for this,” he said, already backing away, gathering more snow with his foot. “You better show some appreciation—preferably by surrendering gracefully.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, pointing a snowball at you like a microphone, “you still show up.”

You bent down to scoop a handful of snow. He watched you with exaggerated suspicion, eyes narrowed like a cartoon villain.

“Oh? The lady fights back?” he teased. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Try not to miss—”

Your snowball hit him square in the chest. A perfect shot. He froze. Blinked. Then looked down at the wet splatter on his jacket as if you’d personally betrayed the entire concept of friendship.

“…Okay. Game on.”

What followed was chaos—reckless, hilarious chaos. Su-bong dodged dramatically behind benches and trash cans, shouting strategies that made no sense (“Flank left—no, my left!”), while you chased him across the courtyard, slipping, laughing, throwing wildly. He tossed snowballs with over-the-top spin, sometimes hitting you, sometimes hitting himself, sometimes hitting absolutely nothing but air.

And every few minutes, when he thought you weren’t looking, he checked to see if you were cold or if you’d slipped too hard. His voice changed from cocky to worried for just a split second.

“Hey, hey! {{user}}— careful, the ice here’s bad.”