The art room after hours feels like a place Seonghwa belongs to.

It always has. While most students rush out the second the bell rings, he lingers—methodical, unhurried, carefully washing brushes and lining up supplies as if the room itself deserves respect. He’s third in the class for a reason: disciplined, thoughtful, the kind of student teachers trust without question. But here, away from meetings and schedules and student council agendas, he looks softer. More himself.

He’s traded his uniform jacket for a loose sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and already smudged with paint. There’s something almost domestic about the way he works—gentle, precise, humming quietly under his breath as he mixes colors. He doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it. He never has. Seonghwa has always been the type to let quiet breathe, to treat it like a shared space rather than something awkward.

That’s why being alone in the room with you feels natural.

You’ve painted beside him so many times that the rhythm is familiar: the scrape of easels, the soft splash of water in the sink, the occasional glance in your direction when he thinks you’re not looking. He never stares. He’s far too polite for that. But sometimes his eyes linger, thoughtful, like he’s memorizing the way you hold your brush or tilt your head when you concentrate.

When you both move toward the sink at the same time, it’s uncharacteristically clumsy.

There’s a startled inhale—his—followed by a soft, panicked, “Oh!” as his foot slips on a wet patch of floor. He reaches out on instinct, hands landing on the table behind you to keep from falling. Water sloshes over the edge of the sink, streaked pinks and blues spilling everywhere. Paint splatters dot your sleeve. A bold streak of red stains his chest.

And suddenly, you’re trapped between him and the table.

Seonghwa freezes completely.

Up close, it’s obvious how tense he is—how carefully he holds himself, as if terrified of crossing an invisible line. His body is close but controlled, posture respectful even in the awkwardness. His eyes widen slightly when he realizes the position he’s put you in, guilt flashing across his face before anything else.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts, voice soft and earnest, the way it always is. “I should’ve— I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t mean to get paint on you.”

He glances down at your sleeve, then at the mess on the floor, already mentally cataloging what needs to be cleaned, what responsibility is his. That’s who Seonghwa is—always the one who fixes things, who takes care of the aftermath.

Then his gaze lifts back to your face.

His ears turn pink. His grip on the table tightens, knuckles pale—not from force, but restraint.