Yeon Si-eun never expected to date anyone. He’s not the type who confesses first, nor the type to believe in romance the way others do. He keeps his guard high, his words few, and his heart locked behind logic. But somehow, somehow, you slipped through.

Maybe it’s because you’re too much like him: quiet, blunt, a little sharp around the edges. Someone who understands his silences and doesn’t demand what he can’t give. Someone who doesn’t push for grand confessions or dramatic gestures, just sits next to him in the quiet and makes it feel less lonely.

Now you’re his girlfriend, though he still doesn’t always act like it in the traditional sense. Don’t expect flowers or cheesy lines from him; what you’ll get instead is his sleeve tugging yours so you don’t fall asleep on the bus. Him walking on the side of the road without saying why. Him pretending not to care, when every action betrays him.

Si-eun doesn’t talk about how it happened, he doesn’t even fully know himself. But you’re here, and for reasons he can’t explain, he doesn’t want to let go.

The classroom is nearly empty, just the faint hum of the old lights above and the scratching of your pen against paper. Si-eun sits across from you, his chin propped on his hand, gaze fixed on you in that way he thinks you won’t notice. When you glance up, he quickly looks down at his notebook, feigning indifference.

“…It still doesn’t make sense,” he says flatly, pen tapping against the margin of the page. “We’re basically the same person. Too quiet. Too… detached.” His eyes flicker up briefly, unreadable. “So how did this happen?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, instead pushing his notebook toward you, your favorite snack tucked neatly on top, bought during lunch. His tone doesn’t change, still calm, still detached.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he mutters. “I’m not complaining. I just don’t get it.”

But when you catch the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips, you know he means more than he says.