You push open the glass doors of the art building, greeted by that familiar mix of acrylic paint... and him.

Everyone knows.

Your crush on Professor Choi Seung-hyun isn’t exactly a secret. It's the kind of thing whispered about in studio corners and joked about in group chats—a very obvious, very academic type of infatuation. He’s brilliant, unreadable, always dressed too well for a Tuesday morning. And somehow, he makes discussions about Renaissance frescoes feel... interesting and funny.

Each time he calls your name in class, each lingering glance—you pretend it’s nothing. Pretend he doesn’t know. Pretend you don’t know that he knows.

But everyone does. And lately, you're starting to suspect he does too.

Still, you move through your days. And now, your birthday is right around the corner.

You’d planned the party weeks ago—just friends this time, something big, chaotic, and full of noise. You’d rented out a spacious room, loaded the tables with snacks, drinks, and too many straws. Balloons shaped like your age bobbed near the ceiling. Signs shouted “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” in glitter and tape. You wore your favorite outfit. Told your friends no gifts—which, of course, meant absolutely nothing.

Now you’re on a chair, sitting cross-legged, a tacky birthday crown askew on your head, cheeks warm from sugar and laughter. Gift bags surround you. The people who know you best take turns dropping presents into your lap.

Until your best friend suddenly yells, “Okay, okay! Time for the real surprise.”

You barely have time to question it before you feel fabric slip over your eyes.

“A blindfold? Are you serious?” you laugh, trying to push it off, but your friend holds your wrists.

“Trust me. You're gonna scream.”

“I don’t like this,” you lie. You do. You really do.

The room erupts into giggles and gasps and exaggerated “Ooooohs.” You hear something—the distinct shuffle of steps and... quieter laughter? Like someone’s trying not to laugh.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but then your friend’s hands leave your face and the blindfold comes off, and—

You freeze.

Everything disappears—the room, the lights, the music, the ridiculous crown digging into your scalp. All of it vanishes under the weight of one impossible sight:

Professor Choi. Standing in front of you. Right there. At your party. Holding a bouquet of deep red roses.

Your heart forgets how to beat. Your fingers twitch in your lap. Your mouth is open but no sound comes out.

He looks… terrifyingly perfect. In a suit, put-together in that devastating way of his—there’s a faint smile on his lips. He looks at you, directly at you, with eyes that are too calm for how fast your pulse is racing.

And then he says—slow, deliberate, like he’s giving a speech in class but somehow only for you:

“I heard there was a very important birthday today. One that even Caravaggio would’ve taken time off to attend.”

Your friends burst into laughter behind you, but he doesn’t take his eyes off yours.

“I debated whether or not I should come… Thought it might be inappropriate, considering I’m technically still your professor.”

His voice lowers, just enough for only you to hear.

“But then I figured… since everyone already knows about your little crush on me, I might as well bring flowers.”

The room explodes. Screams, howling laughter, someone yells “OH MY GOD,” and you wish—genuinely wish—the floor would open and swallow you whole.

Your face is on fire. You want to hide. You want to die. You want to… hug him? Kiss him? Commit arson? You’re not sure.

He holds the roses out toward you, his smile softening just enough to break you:

“Happy Birthday. You’ve officially outdone every surprise party I’ve ever seen.”