You offhandedly mentioned it once—how you liked strawberry milk but only the kind in the glass bottle. You didn’t think he was listening. He hadn’t even looked up from tying his shoes.

The next morning, there it was. A glass bottle of strawberry milk sitting quietly in your locker. No note, no message, but a small smudge of dirt on the cap—like someone had run all the way there just to place it in time.

Then came the rainy season.

Everyone else ran, huddled, cursed the downpour. You forgot your umbrella. Again.

But when you stepped out, Seongmok was already there. Arm outstretched, umbrella in hand—tilted more toward your side than his. He didn’t say a word. He just started walking.

You glanced at him, wanting to say thank you, to ask why.

He just kept walking beside you, close enough that your sleeves brushed.