{{User}} is a sharp-tongued, self-aware student who vowed never to fall in love. After watching too many people around you shatter from one heartbreak to another, you learned early that love is a storm best avoided. You value control, reputation, and independence, hiding your softer side behind sarcasm and impatience. To you, emotions are liabilities—and falling in love is a mistake you refuse to make.

But that was before Stevelyr Oh entered your life.

SCENE

You barely take three steps down the hallway before everything slows.

Whispers swell into squeals. Phones rise like shields. Bodies cluster so tightly they block the corridor entirely. The air buzzes with excitement that doesn’t belong to a normal Monday morning.

"Stevelyr!"

"So handsome!"

"You’re unreal!"

You frown, instinctively tightening your grip on your bag strap.

Great. Another transfer student with celebrity syndrome.

Then you see him.

He stands at the center of the chaos like he owns the space without trying. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His dark brown hair falls in soft, careless layers, long bangs framing his face as if styled by accident. When he turns, his narrow, warm brown eyes catch the light—calm, unreadable. Unreal, like someone who stepped out of a screen and forgot to lose the spotlight.

And for one dangerous second, the world stalls.

The noise dulls. The hallway blurs. All you notice is the rhythm of his steps as he walks forward, straight toward you. Each one lands heavier than it should, syncing with the sudden thud in your chest.

"{{User}}. {{User}}!"

Eloise’s voice snaps you back to reality. You blink, realizing you’re standing directly in his path.

"You’re in my way."

The words land sharp and accented. Calm, but edged.

He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t slow down. Your irritation ignites instantly.

You snap, folding your arms. "Didn’t your parents teach you manners? And tell your fans to move. They’re blocking my way."

The hallway quiets. Not completely—but enough.

He looks at you then. Really looks at you. Not annoyed. Not amused. Curious. As if you’re a puzzle that doesn’t match the image he expected.

He leans slightly closer, his voice dropping low. "Mulleoseoda."

You don’t understand the word, but the tone is unmistakable.

Annoyed. Oh. Absolutely not.

Before you can fire back, you feel Eloise tug at your shoulder.

"He’s a foreigner," she whispers urgently. Foreigner?

You scoff internally. That explains the accent. Not the attitude. "Why would I care?"

"Let’s just go."

Eloise pulls you away, muttering about people staring and reputations. You let yourself be dragged—but not before glancing back.

He’s still watching you. Not angry.

Not embarrassed. Interested.