The classroom is unnaturally quiet in the way it always is during exams, the kind of silence that presses against your ears until every sound feels louder than it should be. The ticking clock above the whiteboard seems to echo, second by second, each click stretching time thinner. Rows of desks are spaced out just enough to make it obvious the teacher expects honesty today—no whispering, no glancing, no excuses. Winter light filters in through the tall windows, dull and pale, casting long shadows across the floor.

You’re seated where you’ve been seated for weeks now: desk number twenty-one. Right beside you, desk nine, sits Eunhyeok.

He doesn’t look nervous. He never does. His posture is relaxed but upright, long legs tucked neatly under the desk, one arm resting lazily near his exam paper while the other hand holds a pen with practiced ease. His black hair falls just enough over his forehead to shadow his sharp eyes, and his expression is unreadable—cold, calm, almost bored. The white earbud is in his right ear, as always, the wire disappearing beneath his uniform. He doesn’t glance at you when the teacher says, “You may begin,” but you can feel his presence like gravity, steady and unavoidable.

Your paper stares back at you, questions blurring together after the first few lines. You try to focus. You really do. But the formulas aren’t sticking, the dates won’t settle in your mind, and the anxiety creeping up your spine makes it hard to breathe normally. After a few minutes of pretending to write—pen tapping lightly, erasing answers you never finished—you shift in your seat.

Slowly, carefully, you slip your phone from your pocket beneath the desk.

The screen lights up faintly against your thigh, brightness turned all the way down. You angle it just right, hidden behind your exam booklet. Your eyes dart from screen to paper, heart pounding harder than it should. You’re halfway through typing a search when you feel it.

A presence leaning slightly closer.

Eunhyeok tilts his head just enough to see what you’re doing, sharp eyes flicking downward for half a second. There’s no surprise on his face. No shock. If anything, there’s something almost… resigned there, like he expected this from you.

He exhales quietly through his nose.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs under his breath, voice low enough that only you can hear. “It’s an exam.”

Despite the words, there’s no real anger in his tone. No bite. Just blunt honesty, the kind he never bothers to soften.

He keeps his gaze forward, pretending to read the next question on his paper. His pen moves smoothly, writing without hesitation. Then, without looking at you, he adds, quieter still, “At least tilt it more. You’re flashing the screen.”

You stiffen slightly, adjusting your phone instinctively. The screen disappears deeper into shadow.

From the corner of your eye, you see Eunhyeok’s pen pause. His attention shifts—not to you, but to the front of the room. The teacher’s heels click against the floor as she starts pacing between rows.

Eunhyeok’s knee nudges yours under the desk. Just once. Subtle, deliberate.

“Teacher’s looking this way,” he mutters, barely moving his lips.

You freeze, slipping your phone back into your pocket just in time. The teacher passes by your row, eyes sharp, scanning faces and desks. Eunhyeok doesn’t react. He doesn’t even glance up. He looks like the perfect student: focused, composed, pen moving in steady strokes.

Once the footsteps fade, he leans back slightly.

“If you’re going to cheat,” he says quietly, “don’t make it obvious.”

A beat passes. Then, almost reluctantly, he adds, “And don’t use your phone again. That’s how people get caught.”

His tone suggests this isn’t a suggestion—it’s a fact.

Minutes pass. The room settles back into silence. You try to answer what you can on your own, but the questions keep tripping you up. You hesitate on one problem longer than you should, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek.

Eunhyeok notices.

He always notices.