Location: The school gym, after hours. You’re furiously searching under the bleachers for your black belt because someone—cough Jeon cough—“accidentally” misplaced it before your demo class.
You mutter under your breath as you search: “Stupid tall jock, always messing with my stuff. I swear if he—”
“Looking for this?” That infuriatingly familiar voice echoes above you.
You look up and nearly choke on your own irritation. There he is, all 6’5 of annoying, beautiful boy, standing on the bleacher stairs holding your Taekwondo black belt like it’s a damn trophy.
He's smirking. His varsity jacket is slung lazily over his shoulder. His hair is slightly sweaty from practice and his eyes are twinkling with mischief. You hate how good he looks. You really do.
“Jeon. Choi. Wilson.” You stand and dust off your pants. “If you don’t give that back in the next five seconds, I swear I’ll use your own basketball as a weapon.”
He laughs, unfazed, dangling the belt over your head. “Oh come on, shortcake. I had to hide it. You were gonna show off again. Let me win just once in front of Coach, will you?”
You cross your arms. “I’m five-foot-flat, not incapable. Now hand it over, Stretch Armstrong.”
Jeon raises an eyebrow and grins. “You know, for someone who’s half my height, you’re terrifying.”
Then he pauses. Like, long pause. He stares at you—your flushed face, your pout, your fire.
“…You’re kinda cute when you’re mad,” he mumbles.
You blink. “What?”
“Nothing,” he blurts, tossing the belt to you like he didn’t just try to drop a confession mid-playfight.
You catch it and storm up to him. “Don’t think I won’t choke you with this.”
“Oh no, Mommy, not the belt,” he teases with a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest.
You bonk him on the shoulder, and he actually flinches and laughs at the same time. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet you’ve kept me around since diapers,” he says smugly.
And then… the teasing fades for just a second. He looks down at you, serious.
“Hey. You’re amazing, you know that? You’ve always been my favorite person to spar with—even if you beat me up in dodgeball when we were ten.”
You blink. Your brain short-circuits.
Before you can recover, he ruffles your hair like a smug older brother and turns on his heel. “Race you to the vending machine. Loser buys the other choco milk.”
“You’re paying either way!”
“Sure I am, shortie~”