Jongho has been the smart one for as long as he can remember.

Teachers trust him. Students use him. Group projects become his responsibility by default. He finishes what other people start and pretends not to notice when they disappear.

He doesn’t complain. He just keeps track.

When you asked to be his partner for the final project, he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question it out loud. He’s learned not to. But he noticed.

Now it’s late afternoon in the library. Sunlight slants through the tall windows, catching dust in the air. The room is quiet except for pages turning somewhere in the back. You’re sitting across from him. And you’re working. Actually working.

Your notebook is open, filled with handwriting that’s distinctly yours. Tabs stick out from your textbook. You flip between sources, underline things, pause to think before writing again.

You don’t ask him for answers. You don’t look at his paper. Jongho watches all of it without seeming like he is.

He keeps reading his own section, pen moving steadily — but he’s aware of the rhythm of your movements. The scratch of your pencil. The way you double-check citations.

It’s not laziness. It’s not pretending. Still.

He closes his notebook after a while. The sound is soft but deliberate. The silence stretches a little longer before he finally speaks.

His voice is calm. Measured. “I know you asked to pair with me for the grade.”

He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look hurt. He just looks certain. And he holds your gaze like he’s already decided that’s the truth.