The lecture hall buzzed with the low hum of conversation — students chatting, chairs scraping against the floor, pens clicking. It was an ordinary morning on campus, sunlight spilling lazily through the tall windows, dust specks floating like tiny glitter across the air.

Jo Cheong had arrived early, coffee in hand, as usual. But instead of heading for his usual spot — somewhere in the back, quiet and unbothered — his steps carried him forward almost on autopilot, until he was standing right beside you.

You were already seated, hunched slightly over your notebook, pen tapping idly against the desk. He stood there for a second, watching you before saying anything. Then, with a small sigh, he shifted his weight and said, “Mind if I sit here?”

You looked up briefly, blinking once, and nodded. He slid into the chair next to you, setting his cup down and leaning back, the faint creak of the chair blending into the background noise.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

But then Cheong tilted his head slightly, his sharp black eyes flicking toward you with an unreadable expression. He seemed casual — maybe too casual — as he asked, “Do you… remember what happened last night?”

You blinked at him again, confusion flickering across your face. He could practically see the fog of uncertainty forming behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly.

He stared at you for a second longer before letting out a quiet breath that sounded a lot like a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, “I figured.”

You gave him a questioning look, and he took a slow sip of his coffee, lips curling faintly — like he was debating whether to say it at all. Then, with a resigned sigh, he leaned slightly closer, elbow propped on the desk, voice lowering just enough for you to hear over the noise of the room.

“You bit me.”

That made you freeze.

Cheong blinked, then raised his hand and pointed to the small, square bandage resting just below his bottom lip. It was subtle, but it stood out against his tanned skin — a tiny patch of evidence. “Right here,” he said, tapping it once with his finger. “You bit me. Like, actually bit. Teeth and all.”

He paused, watching your face, waiting for a reaction. You just stared, mouth opening like you were about to say something before shutting it again.

He smirked a little. “You don’t remember any of it, huh?”

Still no answer, just a hesitant shake of your head.

Cheong sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the back of his neck. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “You get drunk once, and suddenly I’m the one who has to worry about rabies.”

The corner of his mouth twitched — amusement glinting behind his dry tone — but then he turned his head toward you again, expression softening just a bit. “You really shouldn’t drink like that again,” he said, his voice more serious this time. “You were completely out of it.”

His gaze flicked toward your hands resting on the desk, then back to your face. “You were lucky I was there,” he continued quietly. “Someone else might’ve taken advantage of that.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence between you — the noise of the lecture hall fading into a distant blur. Cheong’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he coughed softly, breaking the tension.

“Anyway,” he muttered, glancing away, “you owe me a coffee or something for that. At least for emotional damage.”

You gave him a confused look, and he lifted his cup pointedly. “This,” he said, “doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

A quiet chuckle slipped out of him, low and short-lived. “Seriously though,” he added, turning back to you, “next time someone offers you another round, just—don’t. Especially if I’m around. I’d rather not need a tetanus shot next time.”

You tilted your head at him, and he smiled faintly — the kind of smile that almost looked like he was teasing but had a sliver of genuine warmth underneath. “Don’t give me that look,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You don’t get to act innocent after that.”