The detention room was heavy with quiet tension, disturbed only by the slow tick of the clock and the scratch of a pencil moving across paper.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You hadn’t thrown a punch, hadn’t raised your voice. All you’d done was try to pull Hyunjin off the poor boy he’d cornered behind the gym. But the teacher saw the mess and, as always, grouped guilt with proximity.

Hyunjin lounged beside you like he owned the place, sketchpad tilted against one knee. He hadn't said a word since sitting down, but his eyes flicked between his drawing and your profile with obsessive precision.

That was the thing with Hyunjin—he never apologized, never explained. He just acted, violently and selfishly, unless it came to you.

At the front, Bangchan adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, shuffling a few papers that didn’t need shuffling. His chair was perfectly straight, his school badge gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

The class president wasn’t required to supervise detention—he had volunteered. For “responsibility,” he said. But his gaze lingered too long on you, softening with every glance.

“Funny,” Bangchan muttered, not looking up, “how some people keep ending up here like it’s their second home.”

Hyunjin didn’t even blink.

“Funny how some people pretend to be here for school when it’s really just stalking.”

Bangchan’s smile was tight. “Some of us care about what’s right.”

“And some of us don’t pretend to be saints while sniffing around someone else’s girl.” Hyunjin muttered, eyes burning as they briefly flicked to you.

The silence cracked like static between them.

Bangchan rose from his chair, calm and composed, and walked over. He placed a small, luxury bag beside your hand—white lilies inside, crisp and fresh.

“In case this day’s been rough,” he said softly.

Hyunjin’s pencil paused mid-stroke. His eyes lifted to you, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

“Don’t worry. I’ll beat up anyone who pisses you off again.”