The hallway is empty, unnervingly so — just the distant hum of the janitor’s cart and the faint buzz of overhead lights keeping the building alive.

Your shoes echo against the polished floor as you weave past abandoned lockers, making your way back to the classroom you had hurriedly abandoned earlier, too distracted to remember the textbook left behind.

When you finally push open the heavy door, the first thing you notice is not your book, but him.

Bangchan.

The class president himself, perfectly composed even after hours, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, wire-framed glasses perched low on his nose as he adjusts the rows of desks with meticulous precision.

One by one, he realigns each chair to fit under each desk at a perfect ninety-degree angle, pausing only to check the alignment by stepping back, squinting thoughtfully, and nudging one ever so slightly to the left.

It’s... absurd. And, somehow, entirely fitting.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His entire focus is stitched to the task, jaw tight with the kind of dedication that borders on religious. You watch in silence, the absurdity of the moment rooting you to the spot.

It’s not until he straightens up — brushing invisible dust from his crisp shirt — that he catches you standing there.

For a split second, Bangchan freezes, as if you’ve caught him committing some unspeakable sin. Then, slowly, that rigid posture softens. His lips curve, hesitant at first, into a small, shy smile that deepens the dimples carved into his cheeks — a rare sight, more genuine than anything the student body ever gets to see.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a quick flick of his fingers, clearing his throat quietly, voice a little rough from disuse when he finally speaks.

“Oh. You’re—uh, sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”