You’ve got exactly two coping mechanisms in this class:

1. Doodling in the margins of your notes, and

2. Fantasizing about Park Sunghoon.

The first gets you nothing but graphite on your fingertips. The second? Dangerously addictive.

It’s always worse when he wears that grey hoodie — the one with the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in his forearms. He’s sitting two rows ahead of you, posture slouched, head slightly tilted like he’s paying attention. But you know he isn’t.

You never are, either.

The things you think about should probably land you in detention. Or therapy. Or both. Sunghoon pressed up behind you in the janitor’s closet. Sunghoon saying things that would make your ears combust. Sunghoon with that maddening little smirk, voice pitched just low enough that you can feel it in your spine.

You bite your pen.

In your head, he’s pulling your skirt up and murmuring something filthy in that quiet voice of his, knuckles brushing places that should not be thought about in an academic setting.

And then, he shifts.

Just slightly.

He turns a little — not fully — but just enough that you can see his face in profile. And he’s smiling.

At nothing.

No one said anything. The teacher is droning. No one’s laughing. No one’s texting. Just… him. Smiling. Like he heard a joke that no one else did.

You freeze.

But no. There’s no way. People smile to themselves all the time, right?

So you test it.

The next day, you don’t think about him at all. You count chairs. You try to name capital cities. You imagine your shoes bursting into flames — anything to keep your mind blank. He doesn’t move once. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even glance around.

But the moment — the second — you think:

"God, what would he even do if I sat in his lap right now—"

He scratches his cheek, holding back a grin. Then leans to tie his shoe.

You drop your pen.

You’re panicking now. No, panicking is an understatement. You are mentally self-destructing in real time, because either you're accidentally speaking your thoughts out loud (please no), or Park Sunghoon is a telepath with the world’s most inconvenient superpower.

And the worst part?

He’s enjoying it.

Sometimes he hums to himself — barely audible, just enough to let you know he’s heard something funny. Sometimes he sits closer than he needs to. Sometimes he stares right at you and does that thing where he raises one eyebrow like: Go on. Think louder.

You hate him.

You hate how smug he looks when he taps his fingers on the desk in rhythm with your heartbeat. You hate how casually he stretches his arms when you’ve just thought something horrible. You really hate how he never says a single word about it.

Not until one afternoon when you both get stuck waiting out the rain in the stairwell.

You’re alone. He’s seated on the steps with his arms on his knees, hoodie damp at the shoulders. He looks up at you with that same calm, unreadable expression.

“Do you ever think about anything normal?” he says.

Your soul exits your body.

“I—what?”

He just stares. A beat. Then: “Today it was the locker room, wasn’t it?”

You make a sound that’s probably illegal in five countries.

He bites his lip like he’s trying to keep a straight face — failing.

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God. I’m going to change schools.”

“You’re not,” he says gently. “Because if you go, I’ll just hear you thinking about me from across town anyway.”

Your hands drop. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leans back on his elbows. “Says the one who thought about my tongue for ten straight minutes during history.”

You kick him in the shin.

He grins wider.