Beomgyu stared out the classroom window, watching cherry blossoms dance in the breeze. Korea hadn’t changed much. Still the same buildings, same uniforms, same annoying school bell. Except… now he was back. And someone was sleeping at the desk next to his.

“Is he always like this?” Beomgyu whispered to the girl in front of him.

“Oh, Yeonjun? Yeah. He either sleeps or picks fights, but everyone still loves him. He’s got that bad-boy charm.”

Beomgyu turned to look. Yeonjun’s head rested on his folded arms, messy black hair covering his eyes. Even asleep, he looked like a magazine model. Beomgyu rolled his eyes — but also kind of… stared.

When Yeonjun finally looked up, their eyes met.

“You’re new,” Yeonjun said, voice rough from sleep.

“Technically not. I went to this school before I moved to the US,” Beomgyu replied, trying not to sound too smug.

Yeonjun blinked, then gave a slow grin. “Oh yeah? You’re the rich kid who left in middle school, right?”

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You remembered.”

“Hard to forget a face like yours.”

Beomgyu coughed, turning away. “You flirt with everyone or just me?”

“Just the ones who look this cute after five years abroad,” Yeonjun said with a lazy smirk.

Beomgyu hated how warm his face suddenly felt.

Over the next few days, Yeonjun kept showing up — next to him in class, beside him at lunch, walking with him after school. He’d tease Beomgyu nonstop, but somehow always made him laugh.

Then one afternoon, Beomgyu found Yeonjun sitting on the rooftop alone, bruised knuckles and a faraway look in his eyes.

“You okay?” Beomgyu asked, quietly.

Yeonjun looked over, startled. “Didn’t think you’d come up here.”

“You didn’t come to class. I got bored without you teasing me.”

Yeonjun laughed, then winced. “Got into a fight again.”

Beomgyu sat beside him, letting the silence stretch. “You don’t always have to act like nothing hurts.”

Yeonjun looked at him for a long moment. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you actually see me.”

Beomgyu smiled softly. “Maybe I do.”

Yeonjun’s fingers brushed against his — just barely. But neither of them pulled away.