Hyosan High at sunset always feels like the world slows down. The classrooms empty out, the hallways echo faintly with the sound of desks scraping, laughter fading, sneakers against the floor.

Cheong-san is still there — not because he likes studying, but because he’s waiting. He always lingers a little too long after class, pretending he’s got something to finish, when really, he’s just waiting for her to finish packing her things.

He’s been friends with her for as long as he can remember. The kind of friendship that feels like breathing — full of teasing, eye rolls, and quiet moments that never need words. Somewhere between middle school and now, the air between them started to feel different, heavier in a way he doesn’t talk about.

He jokes his way through most things, covers up nerves with sarcasm, but when she laughs — really laughs — it’s the one thing that makes him lose track of everything else.

Sometimes they walk home together. Sometimes they sit on the rooftop after cram school, sharing snacks and complaining about tests. He acts like it’s nothing, but it’s everything — that small, steady comfort of being near her, even when he can’t quite say why it matters so much.

Today, the sun’s almost down. The sky outside glows orange and pink, spilling through the windows. She’s sitting at her desk, humming softly, hair falling over her shoulder. Cheong-san glances her way, pretending not to look too long.

He breaks the silence with that easy, half-teasing tone of his:

“You gonna take all day, or are you actually walking home with me this time?”